Mechanical Heart
by itsravensfault
Summary: Most of the whole world is fighting against anyone with deformities. John and Sherlock, two deforms join together to fight against the overpowered government to return the world back to normal, and a man bent on stopping them from reaching their goal.
1. Chapter 1

When John Watson was younger his parents weren't the wealthiest people in England. They were faced with a decision many lower class parents were being forced to make; they didn't have enough money coming to support them and their two children. They could force themselves in to starvation or send one or both of their kids off to a government based camp for kids who couldn't be supported by their parents.

Kenneth Watson, John's father, would always whisper to his mother Valerie that something needed to be done. They were drowned in debt and they were sinking faster towards the bottom. He would say he hated the idea of giving away his kids but he was the one suggesting they did it. Valerie shushed him quickly because she would always catch John listening in on their conversation.

Even then, when John was only seven he understood that they had problems and there was a possibility that he and his sister Harry could be shipped off. That didn't mean he wasn't afraid of leaving his parents, or his home. Harry didn't help him either, telling him every night that John was a bad boy and would be shipped off.

John would lay awake at night scared that what Harry was saying was true. He didn't want to ask his parents either, afraid that would anger them. He didn't want to be bad, he wanted to be good and stay home. So he worked hard to get good grades and made sure to pick up after himself at home. He was going to prove Harriet wrong.

X

When John was twelve his parents sat him down at the kitchen table; Harry was at a friend's house, which made him worry about what they had to tell him. They were the Watsons; they didn't do anything without a family member present.

John was sitting straight in his chair, watching as his father paced the floor. "John," he started, his voice was softer than usual "we need to talk to you about something."

John nodded slowly, urging them to continue. Valerie sat forward in her chair and took John's smooth dirty hand in to her own. "We love you," she blurted out as tears started falling down her face.

John looked at her muddled; he never seen his mother cry. He looked at his father who was now sitting next to his mother; a guilty look could be seen in his eyes. Suddenly he understood what was going on. "We don't want you to forget that," Ken said. "This isn't because we hate you."

John's heart sank to the bottom of his stomach. He didn't want to believe what was happening. "You're sending me away," he whispered, it wasn't a question. It was never a question, he knew from a young age that he wasn't going to be living with his parents for his whole life. He watched as his mother sobbed even louder, he could tell it wasn't her idea, and he could tell by the way his dad couldn't look him in the eye that he was the one behind it. He paused, before something clicked. "Wait, why isn't Harry here?" If they couldn't afford two kids why weren't they sending Harry with him?

Ken lifted his head and looked John in his warm blue eyes, the eyes of his mother. "Harry's almost eighteen," was his only explanation.

John could feel tears rolling down his cheeks. He didn't want it to hurt so badly but it did; then again he was being rejected by his parents. Not even his sister, who was already showing signs of going down a bad road, was being rejected. Only good boy John was. "Of course, that makes sense," the blond finally chocked out. He tried to laugh, act like he really understood why he was being given up, but it came out sounding more forced than he was hoping.

Valerie squeezed his hand before he pulled it away viciously. "Angel, you have to understand," she said desperately, "Harry will be able to get a job soon and help support the family."

"Then why don't you keep me 'til she can," John asked, he didn't mean to sound so small. "I don't want to go."

Ken slammed his fist on the table stopping Valerie from talking. "You are going," he said harshly. His jaw was clenched and he was getting red in the face.

John flinched, that was the dad that he knew; the one that shouted all the time. "But it doesn't make any sense," he tried to reason with him.

"I don't care," Ken shouted. "I don't care if it makes no sense; we are the parents and that's what we chose."

Everyone went silent when they heard a knock on the door. John's eyes widened. "You already called them?" he asked. He couldn't believe what was happening to him.

He didn't get an answer; instead Kenneth stood from his chair and let the person in. A tall man dressed in black walked in with an unpleasant smile placed on his face. "You must be John Watson," he said, his voice too high for his body.

John turned to his mother. "Mum, please don't make me go," he whispered to her.

Valerie grabbed her son's hand again. "Sorry Angel," she answered. "Your father already signed the papers." She really did look sorry; she didn't want her baby to leave her side.

A large hand was placed on his shoulder; it was gripping him too hard. "Come on Mr. Watson," the man said again. "We don't want to be late for the opening ceremony."

John was pulled to his feet forcefully, but somehow it looked like he got up on his own. He tried to wrench himself from the iron death grip but it only tightened and he cried out in pain. "Mummy, please don't let him take me," he hollered. "I don't want to go! I'll be a good boy; I'll work whenever I can. Please don't let him take me."

"You've always been a good boy," Valerie told him. "I love you John." Their hands slipped from each other's grasp.

John struggled to get free again but the man just lifted him up and threw him over his shoulder. Valerie let out a strangled moan as she watched John kick and scream. She wished she could do something but Ken was now in front of her keeping her from running after them.

"Why?" John cried out before he was carried out in to the cool night air. He was screaming on the top of his lungs. The neighbors opened their window and looked out at the commotion. They did nothing, they knew that it would happen at some point, they knew that it could be their child and yet they did nothing. They understood what the Watson's had to do and turned a blind eye.

John was thrown in to the back of the car. The man slid in next to him and sent him another unnerving smile. "Don't worry John, you'll be safe in our hands," he stated. John swallowed hard; he didn't feel safe at all.

X

John has been at the camp for a year already; it was a horrid place for anyone and wasn't even a camp, it was a military base. Every kid, that's all they accepted, upon arrival would be given dog tags after being checked out by the doctors. The dog tags had their name on it, their blood type, and a five digit number. John's number was 81575.

Every day he had to recite the number to someone behind glass and they would hand him a small blue and yellow pill. He would take the pill swallow it in front of them and go on with his daily routine.

Through the past year John learned general first aid and was already on his way of learning more advance medical training. He learned how to shoot a gun and kill a person with a variety of weapons. He was becoming what someone would call a killing machine; despite the fact that he hasn't killed anything but bugs in his whole life. He didn't like the thought of killing someone anyway, unless they were in the wrong and threating a life. He had classes; normal classes he had at school when he was going.

The last few weeks though John has been going through horrible pains whenever he laid down in bed. They were getting so bad that he could barely move during the day and had to go to the hospital on base.

He was lying on his back looking up at the plain white ceiling; the fan was making shadows whenever it passed over the light, setting a calm mood for John. The noise from outside his room was quiet through the large medal door. He was barely conscious; the doctors earlier put some kind of pain medicine in to his IV, he was surprised that he was able to keep his eyes open.

John started when his door banged open and a doctor strolled in. "John H. Watson," the doctor said cheerfully, "number 81575. You're in here for back pains?" John nodded feebly. The doctor checked something off on his chart. "Can you sit up for me?"

John put shaky hands on to the stiff mattress and lifted himself up slowly. Pain shot down from his shoulders to the bottom of his back. He tried to hold back any noise but let out a strangled whimper.

The doctor ignored his cries of pain and stepped forward. He ran his pen over his back making John cringe in even more pain. "The skin is very sensitive around your shoulder blades," he mumbled to himself. "Tell me John, does this hurt?" He pushed his hand down on his shoulders.

John's body felt like it was on fire, he screamed piercingly. No thirteen year old should have to be in the amount of pain he was in. The doctor relieved the pressure; John took in mouthfuls of air in trying to calm his heart that felt as if it was going to explode. His hospital gown was sticking to his body with the amount of sweat pouring from his body. "What's wrong with my back?" he coughed out after he got his breath back.

The doctor looked up from his clipboard as if he just noticed that John was in the room. "I'm not permitted to tell you," he said casually. "You'll be move to cell block G, when you get there you'll be told what is going on." He smiled down at the boy before walking out of his room and motioning towards someone out of sight.

Two young adults came in to the room; one of them had a mask and quickly placed it over John's face. John didn't even have a chance to struggled, whatever gas the mask was emitting worked; it was strong and worked fast. He was out before the other nurse could even strap him to his bed.

X

Cell block G was a small room with four gray concrete walls and the door had a look through hatch towards the top. John woke up to the sound of someone talking outside the hatch that was open. He was instantly nauseous; the gas was still affecting him he tried to stand but his right leg was too heavy. He looked down and noticed a large chain on the bed connecting him to the iron bed post.

The door opened and Jensen; the head of the base walked in. "I see you're awake Mr. Watson," he said as he stepped closer to him. "I'm here to talk to you about what's happening to your body."

"Why am I chained to the bed?" John asked in a raspy voice.

"Precaution, we don't want you attacking me do we?" Jensen answered swiftly. "Now, your body is changing. The pills you have been taking have a chemical in it that I formulated that will mix with your DNA and mutated it."

John stared at him; he wasn't making any sense. "What kind of change?" he questioned. He wanted to know what was happening to him.

Jensen smiled; his teeth were too bright and too straight, they scared John. The head sat down on the edge of the bed and placed a hand on John's arm. "You're growing wings," he said passionately. He looked like a kid with a bag full of candy.

John's brain stopped; did he hear him right? Was he really growing wings or was Jensen off his rocker and didn't know what he was saying. "Are you kidding?" he asked; he wasn't aware of his voice being so soft.

Jensen's face suddenly became serious. "Of course I'm not kidding," he told him sharply. He stood from his bed in a quick movement. "Now, you'll be in here until you're wings are fully grown. If you survive the process you'll be moved to the special ward."

John reeled his head back up towards the crazy man. 'Did he just say if I survive?' he asked himself in a panicked voice. "What do you mean if I survive?" he ejaculated loudly.

"Well not everyone's body is strong enough to withstand their change," Jensen told him truthfully. "More than about half die, but you don't have to worry about that; you seem plenty strong enough. You may be small but I can see it in your eyes, you'll survive."

John ran a shaky hand through his sandy hair and wasn't sure what to say. He couldn't believe he had to live the kind of life he was living. He couldn't help but think if his parents knew what was happening at the base they wouldn't have sent him there. He shook his head before he looked back up at the head. "How long is the process?" he asked without really thinking about it.

"We're not sure," Jensen told him. He turned on his heel and walked towards the door. "That's all you'll need to know Mr. Watson. Trust me; you're going to be fine."

X

John screamed as he braced himself against the cold gray wall. The skin on his back was being torn apart by bones that were shifted just underneath it. He could feel every bone forming in to a new shape and moving about. Sweat was pouring down his body mixing with the blood from his open wounds; he wanted the pain to stop, he needed everything to go back to normal before he was mutating. His hands were in fists and he pounded as hard as he could against the wall as he tried to keep his mind off the blinding pain from his back.

Another burst of pain erupted from his shoulders and he let out another horrific sob. He swore he could see his life passing before his eyes every time the bones pushed through his skin. He wished he didn't have to live any longer if he had to go through what he was now. John started to believe that the ones that died killed themselves so they could be over with it; it didn't see like a bad idea at the time either. He would be done with all the pain; that's all he wanted to get away from.

The pain subsided for a moment. John was able to catch his breath. His throat was raw from screaming and his hands were bleeding from constant pounding on the wall. His pale skin was in shreds, it was barely there; they looked like a red sponge that was over flowing with water. John stumbled off his bed; hitting the cold floor hard and he crawled over to the water bucket that's changed every day for him. He dipped his hands in and let out a gasp of relief and pain at the same time. He saw his crumbled up dirty shirt in the corner of his small room and used his feet to grab it so he didn't have to move too much.

Once he had the shirt in his hand he ripped off long strips with his sharpened teeth. He wrapped the fabric around his cuts on his hands; it would have to do until he was able to get them proper medical attention. He cupped his hands and dropped them back in the water; he brought back up a handful of water and drank it. It tasted like blood and dirt; it almost made him throw up but he kept it down; the water was all he had and he was thirsty. He brought up another handful when he felt a twitch in his back. He clutched on to the edges and got ready for the searing pain to begin.

But John didn't feel anything. Everything was going fuzzy and he was getting slowly closer to the ground. He was able to see someone's shoes get nearer as if in slow motion and could hear a deep voice shouting at someone. He couldn't make out what was being said but he vaguely felt his body being lifted off the ground. The darkness around the edges of his visions closed in quickly and rendered him blind; he was unconscious again.

X

John woke up again face down in his pillow. He lifted up his heavy body and noticed that his hands were bound in clean white gauze. He saw Jensen staring at what appeared to be an x-ray. "Brilliant," slipped from the man's mouth as he held it up to the light. "Look Mr. Watson, you have wings inside your back. Look."

John saw what he was looking for. He could see his bones in the shape of folded up wings in his back. He could see why it hurt so much to grow them; they had to move up his whole back just to get out. "Wow," he whispered. He couldn't help himself, despite the pain it was pretty interesting what was happening inside him.

"You've been out for a few days," Jensen told him taking back the x-rays. "They've been growing when you were asleep. Look over your shoulder."

John looked behind him and saw the tip of gray matted down feathers. He reached his fingers back and touched them; they weren't wet like they looked but dry and a little rough. His touch made them twitch and he hissed in pain. He looked up at Jensen, who had his large perfect smile on his face again, with his own small smile on his face. He couldn't believe he actually had wings.

"I'll be leaving now," Jensen announced after John was silent for another minute. "I'll see you later Mr. Watson."

John wished he could touch the tips of his wings again but he didn't want to cause himself pain. He opted for just watching them over his shoulder. He couldn't wait for them to be fully out; he wondered if he could fly when they were. He laid back down; pushing away thoughts of future pain and welcomed the thoughts that had him soaring over fields in the warm sun.

X

Four months; that's how long John's been in cell block G. His wings were almost fully grown and he's was losing weight constantly. He raised concern the next time he saw Jensen but the man told him it was fine and that it was supposed to happen. He was getting lighter so he could lift himself up better with his wings.

John's fingers were also changing; two of them weren't changing but his thumb, forefinger, and middle finger were changing. His bone started pushing against his skin and grew about two inches long and curved. The skin around the bottom healed over and the bone that was sticking out became harder than normal. He's hit them a couple of times against the wall and ended up breaking his hand but the talons didn't even get chipped.

He liked his talons; he could grab his meat without a fork and perch himself on the bar at the end of his bed easily. Jensen seemed to like them also; he spent hours look at them once he found out John had them. He told the boy that he never planned on the talons coming; he was only sure of the wings coming out nothing else. John also asked why his teeth became sharper; he didn't have an answer for that either.

X

One day when John was eating his small dinner his back started twitching; he started to panic; his back wasn't bothering him for a while and to start now scared him. He threw his plate to the floor as he felt pain start to form in his back. He bit his lip; piercing the skin because of his sharp teeth and tried not to scream.

John gripped his bed post; he could feel his wings growing even larger. He knew they were almost done; he hoped that he was going through the last growth spurt and that he would be free of the solitary room.

The medal door clanged open and Jensen stormed in. "How come no one told me he was having another growing session?" he yelled at the two guards that patrolled the halls outside of the cells. He pulled a syringe out of his pocket and stuck it in to John's neck.

John felt the pain drain away; he was drugged again. Every time he had a spurt he would only have to endure the pain for a little bit because Jensen liked to take x-rays every time to see what was happening and how close he was to having full grown wings. He heard someone tell Jensen that he just started and they didn't hear him.

As John was being carried out on his stomach he started to wonder if everyone else got the same treatment as he did. Was everyone treated kindly and by the head or were they cast aside. He suddenly felt guilty all of a sudden; he didn't want to be treated specially. At the moment though he couldn't do anything about it; he was slipping in to unconsciousness as the drugs started to take their course.

X

When John woke again Jensen was staring at him happily. "They're done growing," he announced proudly.

John looked behind his shoulder and saw the gray wings that he has been seeing for the last four months; they were bigger definitely they now reached just above his ankle. He pushed himself off the bed and stretched them out for the first time. It felt great; like he was stretching his arms and legs after a full night of sleep. "They're wonderful," John breathed out. He reached back and ran his fingers over the feathers; he couldn't help but contain a smile as he started to flap them back and forth.

"Those feathers aren't your real feathers either," Jensen bubbled, "you have to shed these and your real ones will grow in. They'll be beautiful."

John couldn't wait for that to happen. "Now what?" he asked a little out of it.

Jensen stood up straighter and smiled down towards him. "Now we transfer you to your new home in the special ward," he told him.

John remembered hearing about the special ward; when someone went in there they usually weren't seen again. Everyone back on the normal base believed that if you were brought there they were killed. He swallowed hard; suddenly the happiness wore off and he was afraid of what was lying ahead of him. He wasn't ready to enter the special ward.

X

The special ward was basically like the normal base; except everyone that was there had gone through transformation and had some special mutation. John was assigned his roommate a few days after he was shipped off to the ward. John didn't expect to see a small boy with dark eyes and a bit of a crooked smile. The boy's name was James Moriarty but right off the bat he ordered John to call him Jim; he hated being called James; his parents used to call him that all the time and he hated his parents.

Jim was part spider. He could shoot webs out of his wrist like spider man and could grow two extra arms. Whenever he was about to use his abilities his eyes would turn dark red. It scared John whenever he would wake in the middle of the night and Jim would be sitting there shooting off little web balls and his eyes would be glowing.

John liked Jim a lot; he was nice and smart. He loved to mess around in the science lab on down time and detested target practice even if he was a good shot. Not as good as John though; he had a weird knack for being a crack shot. He also barely slept, sometimes he would stay up for nights on end doing nothing but messing around with whatever he could get his hands on. He also liked to connect his web to different people see how long it took them to notice that they were being watched.

John was a little afraid of Jim. He would sometimes talk about how to kill someone; John would listen and think that his friend was crazy. He wouldn't ever voice his thoughts to the other; that would risk a great friendship that he had with him.

John was allowed to fly around a large gym; he wasn't allowed to fly outside ever. He liked to fly around and bounce off the walls; he would fly in circles and see how close he could get to the ground before he had to pull up. It was a game John, and Jensen would throw in some obstacles to challenge the man.

John figured out that Jensen did treat him differently. He treated him better than most of the other people on base. That didn't mean he didn't want to try to get out of the prison like camp. They weren't treated like humans; they were treated like monsters. The mutants weren't allowed near the kids that just arrived and were in the first stages of having their DNA morphed. They weren't allowed to use their abilities outside or around any workers that weren't trained to take care of animals. John shuddered at the thought; he didn't feel like an animal, although he did eat a few mice every now and then. He was still human though and deserved to be treated as so.

John found out too quickly that if he even looked at a worker in a weird way then he would be shot with a tranquilizer dart and hauled off to a holding cell. Jensen wasn't too fond of the way the guards took care of them but refused to hire new workers. He said that if they felt safer around the mutants with their rules and guns then they could do whatever made them happy.

John and Jim tried to escape so many times and that's why they found themselves in a jail cell on John's twentieth birthday. They tried to escape; it was Jim's plan, he was the clever one out of the two of them. He told John that his plan was flawless; but he didn't know about the chip implanted in the back of their necks.

They were sitting back to back in separate cells. Each had a cup of water; John requested it from one of the guards. Jim didn't seem too happy about his failed attempt at escaping. He was sure that they were going to be able to get out that time.

"Aw cheer up Jim," John told him; he was chuckling about himself. He knew that eventually they would get out; they couldn't just have a whole bunch of trained killers cooped up with each other for too long. "We'll try again some other time."

Jim slammed his cup down on the ground making John jump slightly. "You know what Johnny, that's we're you're wrong," he let out through clenched teeth. "I've calculated we'll all be killed in three weeks' time."

John's eyes widened. "What gives you that idea?" he asked a hint of anger in his voice.

"I have my ways of finding these things out," he told him. "I heard that we're not going to be alive by the end of the month, none of us. So we have to get out of here as soon as possible. Do you understand that Johnny?"

"Well that's some horrible birthday news," John muttered as he sipped at his rusty tasting water. Conditions have gotten worse at the base over the last eight years that John has been there. Some people who came later to the base told them all about the new government that was taking over England. A law was passed that made all the kids that were born with deformities to be taken away from their parents and killed regardless of the deformity.

A kid named Mike told him that his little sister was taken away because she was deaf. Another kid said that her brother was taken because he had a stump of an extra finger.

John talked to Jensen about it one day and he told him not to worry; the new government didn't know about them. John asked if he could have a newspaper everyday so he could keep up with what was going on in the outside world. He read all about how the government was against a deformed world and only allowed people who were "perfect" to live. It sickened him to know that the world was changing so drastically and that people were letting someone like that to come in to power.

John figured that's why the conditions were getting worse at the base; they were running out of money they had to support thousands of people and couldn't keep everyone healthy and fed all the time. 'Maybe that's why they're going to kill us,' he thought to himself. He felt something drop to the pit of his stomach. It was déjà vu, except now he was being lead in to certain death and not just a camp. Jim would be right then; they didn't have the right funding and they couldn't be let the mutants free or the government would get them, the only logical thing to do was to kill them. John didn't want to believe Jensen would do that; he loved everyone at on the base, claiming they were his; he created them, they all were his children. It was a sort of twisted love; he allowed people to hurt them all they wanted and stood back saying 'no, stop it' in a useless tone. John didn't understand him sometimes.

The door to the jail house opened up and Jensen stepped in with a disappointed look on his face. "Mr. Moriarty and Mr. Watson," he sighed; the two men were always a problem for the older one. He opened up their cells and allowed two guards in to each. "Take them to separate rooms; I'll be there in a second to deal out their punishments."

John was lifted up by his armpits and dragged out of the cell in to a room with no windows and chains on the walls. Only the ones that have been in the room knew what happened in there; you weren't allowed to speak about it to anyone it was a rule that Jensen demanded that always be followed. John's been there plenty of times to know what happened behind the closed doors.

John was dragged over to the chains and waited 'til they clamped them over his wrists. He was hanging there stretching out his wings against the cool wall. It felt good to stretch them out after having them bunched up behind him against the bars for the last few hours. He lifted his head to glare at one of the guards.

The guards snarled at him and turned away. The door flung open and Jensen walked in with his hands behind his back. He stared John straight in the eyes before turning to look at the guards. "Twenty lashings," he announced. He twirled on his heel and started for the door.

"I think we should clip his wings," one guard piped up; it was the same guard that John smiled at. "That way he won't be able to escape by flying."

Jensen shook his head; he walked over to John with a glint in his eye. "What's the meaning of having this angel if he wouldn't be able to fly?" he ran his fingers through the soft black feathers. John flinched, he didn't like it when the older man touched his wings; it felt weird. "Twenty lashings and that's all you're allowed to do to him."

John squeezed his eyes shut as he heard the endearment his mother always used for him when he was younger. He found it ironic that she called him angel and he grew wings like one. Except his were black, maybe he was bad after all. He pushed away those thoughts; he had to remind himself that he wasn't a bad person.

Jensen left the two men to do their bidding on John. All John could do was to wait for the beatings to be done. Then he would be left to hang for another two days before he was going to be set free. It was worth it though; John and Jim were the closest they've ever come to escaping; they were able to taste the freedom that was on the other side.

But John had to think about what was happening. Was the world outside the base any better than inside it? The stories about children being taken away and killed just because they were born different was horrible but it had to be better than being starved to death and whipped the moment you stepped out of line.

Every whip to his chest brought him closer to his decision. He no longer wanted to stay where he was; he wanted to be out with the rest of the world where he could make a difference and die fighting a cause.

X

John made up his mind; he was going to escape with Jim. They had everything planned out, it was going to be the same plan as last time but they were going to dig the electroshock chips out of their neck. It was a painful process but the two of them have been through worse. They had to see how far the chips were down; John allowed Jim to dig in to his neck first so they could find out all the information. By the end of the week they both had bandages around their necks that no one questioned and were ready to leave. John was feeling anxious; he couldn't wait to be free again and not some old man's soldier. It made John feel guilty though; he liked Jensen but he was a weird man who felt as though he was god. He loved to rule over everyone at the base and didn't like when people disobeyed him.

John was tired of the way he was living there; dirty water, old worn out clothes, rancid meat, and beatings from anyone that wanted to hand them out. He wanted to get out and fight against the "normal" people that thought they were better than them. He wanted to fight a war that they all were being sheltered against. John knew how to fight; he knew how to shoot a gun and fight. He and Jim could stop a war; anyone at the base could.

He wasn't sure why they weren't let loose on the world; they could possibly end the fight and over take the government that was spreading rapidly all the over the world. He could help those who were fighting against them.

John pushed himself out of his thoughts and prepared to get ready to fly over the high fence with Jim in his arms. He looked for the other man over everyone in the yard. He spotted Jim's jet black hair in the large crowd and he started moving towards him. Suddenly though Jim was taken by the shoulders and dragged away.

John started to panic; they were supposed to be leaving when the guards changed post, they didn't have much time before then. He tried to push his way through the crowd but it was too thick to get anywhere fast. He heard shouts behind him; he looked around and saw two guards heading towards him. His eyes widened; someone must have found out that they had another escape plan and told squealed.

John looked towards the sky then back at the guards. Stay here and be tortured or go out and fight the world were his only two options. 'Sorry Jim,' he said to himself before he spread his wings and shot up to the sky. The air rushed past his ears in a loud roar; he couldn't hear the yells from below.

Once he was high enough to fly straight over the fenced John changed his course. He sped towards the open fields beyond the barriers of the base. His large wings beat against the air making himself go faster and faster. He was over and he wasn't shocked by bolts of electricity this time.

John started laughing; the air tasted sweater on the other side of the fence. He spread his arms out and let himself soar over the tops of the tall trees; the sun felt better than it did at the base. Everything outside was better than what was on the inside.

John brought his hands back in and felt something drip on to them. He quickly looked down and saw his red blood dripping from his shoulder. He blinked a few times before shock finally set in and he went unconscious.

His wings stopped flapping; he floated for a millisecond before falling straight for the trees. His body was limp and most of the impact was absorbed by his wings when he hit the branches.

John's comatose body was tangled up in twigs, branches, and leaves. He couldn't be seen from the ground by anyone that was looking for him.

X

Jensen sent out a search party to find John's body before he went and talked with Jim. He walked all the way to the holding cell where they kept the arachnid and stopped inches away from the bars that separated the two.

"Mr. Watson is gone," Jensen told him.

Jim looked up with wide eyes. He never suspected John to leave; John was loyal and would always stay by his side. That's what he told Jim hundreds of times. He searched Jensen's face and found that he was telling the truth; Jim's only friend was gone, left him behind to rot. "Good for him," he opted on saying. "He deserves to be free of your death grip."

"I'm protecting you kids," Jensen told him. "You're my children."

Jim growled the older man sickened him. "You created us," he yelled launching himself to his feet, His eyes turned red and he shot a web around Jensen's throat, pulling him hard against the bars. "You created us in a world that will never accept us. You call us your children but you harm us regardless. You're not a father to any of us."

Guards rushed in and shot Jim with a tranquilizer gun. The young man's eyes turned back to brown before they slid shut and he fell to the floor. Jensen rubbed his neck, taking in a few breaths to air back in to his lungs. "Any news on Mr. Watson?" he asked. The three guards shook their heads. He nodded and left the room.

He was later informed that the body of John Watson could not be located anywhere in the forest in which they shot him over. Jensen felt sick to his stomach; he was hoping to have his magnificent bird back in his cage.

**So, what do you think? Would you like to hear how Sherlock grew up or would you like me to never write again because I stink so back you can smell it through your computer? I would really like you opinion. It would be nice. So yeah anything will do. I expect reviews! Mwhahahahaha! BYE!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Alright guys, I must say I was not expecting that kind of response. I got Sherlock's life here if you guys want to read it. I hope you enjoy it. See ya.**

At the age of ten Mycroft Holmes got a new baby brother. The baby was born smaller than other babies. He had thin black hair in groups on top of his head; his eyes were a dull blue and wandered around curiously like any baby's eyes would. His name was Sherlock; Mycroft was sure that his parents couldn't get any worse than his name but they proved him wrong.

Along with being a small baby Sherlock was also a sick baby. He was in the hospital for the first six weeks of his life, with doctors poking and prodding him to find out why his temperature spiked to dangerous temperatures throughout the day.

The first spike happened when Mycroft was holding Sherlock for the first time. He had him in his arms and was staring down in to his ever moving eyes when Sherlock started crying out at the top of his lungs. Mycroft knew that babies cried a lot but he was sure they weren't supposed to get hot when they did. The nurse came over to him and took him from Mycroft and noticed Sherlock's hot skin too.

Mycroft panicked; he thought he hurt his brother despite how illogical the idea was. He couldn't make his brother have a fever with just his touch. Miranda, their mother, was scared also; the only person that seemed to be in control was their father Richard. He was hushing Miranda's questions about what was happening to her baby and occasionally telling Mycroft that it wasn't his fault. Apparently the elder Holmes boy was muttering that he didn't mean to hurt him.

The Holmes family prided themselves on the fact that they were always in control and were highly intelligent; but the day the doctors didn't know what was wrong with Sherlock. When the fevers didn't stop and the infant was constantly overheating and the doctors ordered to keep Sherlock at the hospital. Their control and intelligence were thrown out the window to let in the worry for their new family member.

At the end of six weeks the doctors finally found out what was wrong with Sherlock. They cured it quickly and were getting ready to send him on his way. They were checking over him, making sure that he was all well and no long term damage was done. They found a problem; Sherlock Holmes was blind.

X

Sherlock held on to his mother's hand, they were quickly moving down the sidewalk to get to another store. Sherlock was clutching his walking stick to his chest; he was supposed to be using it but his mum couldn't wait for the seven year old to make his way through the London crowd. He loved it though, running through hundreds of people, feeling Miranda's hand in his own, and the pavement pounding against the soles of his feet, pushed joy through his body.

When they reached the store Miranda stopped, causing Sherlock to stop too. He was in giggles at her side; he wanted to do it again. His mother let go of his hand letting him drop the end of his stick and wandering around next to her. He liked being independent; he wasn't hindered by his disability, he wouldn't let himself be. He was smarter than most kids his age and even a few years older; he could identify anyone by their scent; he wasn't going to let being blind get in his way of becoming smarter than he already was.

"How about a nice tie to go with the suit for the wedding this Saturday," Miranda suggested.

Sherlock wasn't paying attention to her though; he could hear a man in the aisle over talking about how people are being taken from their homes for no apparent reason. Sherlock was no less intrigued by what he was saying; he inched closer towards the clothes rack. He loved a mystery; anything that got his brain racing to find the right answer was better than any present he had ever gotten.

"Sherlock honey," Miranda tried again but her son was lost in his own little world.

The youngest Holmes stepped forward again, forgetting that there might be an obstacle in his way and tripped over a clothes rack. He let out a smothered noise as his arms flapped around his sides. He grabbed at the clothes around him and brought down the rack with him. He groaned as he laid on the ground; something warm was pooling around his head. He sniffed the air and huffed; he hated the smell of coffee.

"What are you doing kid?" the man who was talking earlier yelled.

Miranda scurried over the clothes and on to the other side by Sherlock's head. "Are you okay?" she asked as she picked her son's head out of the coffee.

The man scoffed. "Watch where you're going next time," he snapped. Clearly he wasn't have a good day.

Miranda shot a glare up towards the man about to tell him off but Sherlock spoke up before either of the adults could start a row. "What else do you know about the kidnappings?" he asked. He didn't want to make an even bigger scene so he just skipped straight to the question. He knew his mom would have told him that in fact he couldn't see where he was going, but Sherlock wasn't going to allow her ruin his chance to get information. He knew that people were staring at him; he really didn't care. He wanted the man to tell him.

"Why would a kid like you want to know about that?" the man asked, making Sherlock grow irritated.

Sherlock was helped to his feet by Miranda, they had the rack all straightened out and everything was being taken care of. The boy tried to look the man in the eyes as he said, "I'm interested, that's all."

Miranda yanked on his arm; she didn't want Sherlock to talk with the man anymore; she angry with the both of them. On the way home she berated him. She told him to never talk with strangers; even if it seemed interesting and he was bored. She also told him he needed to be more careful; he couldn't gallivant off to something he thought was interesting. She said that he was a little child and needed to be safe.

X

Sherlock stretched out on the bench waiting for Mycroft to get off the bus. The older Holmes was coming home for the holidays and Sherlock volunteered himself to meet the man. Of course his mother had protests but Rich told her to stop coddling him and let him adventure out on his own. So Sherlock hopped in to the town car and was driven to the bus stop where his brother was going to show up.

The sounds of London going on around him were soothing to listen to when he was trying to relax. Others would think that such a loud city would be more distracting than soothing but Sherlock liked hearing different people's conversations, rating them on a scale of idiotic to semi-interesting. He's never found anything that was interesting enough for him.

The bench shifted under Sherlock and jerked him from his thoughts. He inhaled the scent, the person wasn't Mycroft. Sherlock was going to ignore the other person but he heard them let out a not so subtle cough. "Hi," she said, "I'm Eileen."

Sherlock smiled; he knew that she didn't know he was blind; he made sure that most people didn't. He could have fun with her. "Sherlock," he answered back with a pleasant smile on his face.

"That's a unique name," Eileen told him. She giggled quietly, trying to hide it. "I…uh…saw you across the street sitting here all alone. Thought I would come over here and keep you company while you wait for your bus."

"How considerate of you," Sherlock stated. He was growing bored with the conversation already.

Eileen moved again, closer to Sherlock. Sherlock wasn't comfortable with the close proximity. "So, where are you going?" she asked.

Sherlock got hit by a cloud of perfume; he moved his head over trying to get further away. "Why do you want to know?" he tried his best to sound nice but he wasn't sure if he hit the nail.

"Well," she paused; she needed to think of an answer, "I saw a few busses pass by and was just wondering if you missed yours."

Sherlock reeled back; he didn't hear any busses pass by him. "What time is it?" he asked.

"Twelve," Eileen answered. "When is your bus supposed to come?" She didn't sound so flirty any more.

"Mycroft," Sherlock growled. He heard a deep chuckle from behind him. "You've changed your soap." He frowned, getting angry at himself for not knowing sooner that his brother was nearby.

Eileen turned her head and looked at the tall man who stepped forward. "Dear brother, it's so nice to see you," Mycroft noted. His eyes shifted towards the girl next to him. "Going for the older ladies I see."

Sherlock scoffed. "Hardly, I was trying to pass the time 'til you got here," he explained. "She's the one going for the young boys."

Eileen's eyes bugged out. "You can't be any younger than twenty," she told him. "So you're only a year younger than me."

"Actually," Mycroft stepped him, "he's sixteen." Eileen's face fell; she looked horrified. "Now little brother, I believe we shall be going." He lightly touched Sherlock's shoulder and he stood from his spot on the bench.

Sherlock extended his white cane, which was hiding beneath his leg the whole time, and started walking with Mycroft. "You don't usually come home for the holidays," he stated, "why come now?"

His brother didn't speak for a few moments; Sherlock feared there would be a hesitation in the answer. The hesitation spoke more than whatever Mycroft could say. "I have something to talk about with mum and dad," he told him truthfully.

"Does it have to do with the new law being passed?" asked Sherlock.

Mycroft made sure he didn't hesitate. "Let's get home first," he answered and left it at that.

Sherlock knew he wasn't going to get any more out of his brother. He was silent for a few minutes than spoke up, "You've been eating a lot since you left." He could hear Mycroft let out a low grunt.

X

Sherlock couldn't handle not knowing what was going on. He had every right to be in the dining room with the rest of his family discussing the future problems that would involve him. He moved from his room out to the sitting area and waited before moving closer to the dining room. He leaned against the wall and listened in on the conversation.

"Mycroft he is just a boy," Miranda said to her eldest son. "He's only sixteen; they're not taking children."

Mycroft exhaled slowly, trying to regain composure. "Mummy," he soothed, "you don't know anything about what's really going on. I work behind the scenes I know what's happening. They don't care how old you are, they'll take you."

"What do you suggest us to do?" Rich asked sarcastically. He wasn't happy that his child was telling him what to do. "They're just passing the silly law to scare people Mycroft. You don't even have proof that the government is taking people."

Mycroft clenched his fist trying to remain calm. "Yes I do," he gritted out through his teeth. "All those kidnappings that you read about in the newspaper; do you think the police are so dumb they can't find the perpetrator. The government is paying them off; people are being stolen and there's nothing they can do about it."

"You work in the government," Rich snapped. "If it's as bad as you say it is then why do you still work there?"

"They won't let me leave," Mycroft twitched. "It wasn't this bad when I started; now though, I'm in too far. They know that I know what's going on."

Rich leaned forward with a nasty look on his face. "Why don't they kill you then?" he inquired.

"Richard!" Miranda shrieked.

"Why, so you lose both your sons?" Mycroft shot back.

"Mycroft Timothy Holmes," Miranda scolded, tears were running down her face, "I don't want to talk about this anymore. We are Holmes and we will be civil amongst each other."

Mycroft slammed his hands down on the table making everyone jump. "No mother," he said sharply, "we will not stop talking about this. Just because of our last name doesn't mean we're immune to the world. Sherlock will be taken and you won't have anything to stop it; unless, you let me help."

Richard sat back in his chair, defeat written all over his face. "What do we need to do?" he softly asked.

Sherlock straightened up his back; he wasn't sure what to think about what his brother was doing. He never went against their parents like that; he was always the cool headed one of the two and he just yelled. Sherlock leaned forward again; he wanted to find out what was going to happen.

"Sherlock," Mycroft called out to him.

The younger Holmes smiled slightly and stepped in to the dining room. "What are you going to do?" he asked.

"He doesn't need to be here for this," Miranda said.

"Stop sheltering him from everything mummy," Mycroft told her. He turned to face Sherlock and paused for a moment. He took in a deep breath and started explaining. "I can destroy your file; make any trace of you disappear. It'll be like you never existed."

Richard cut in, "How can you do that without getting caught?"

"I can do it," Mycroft assured him. "I may not have a lot of power but I have enough to make someone not exist. The only thing is you'll never be able to leave the house. Any time someone is here you have to hide."

"So I have to hide for the rest of my life?" Sherlock questioned. It wouldn't be much different from his life already; he was used to staying away from everyone.

"No," he answered. "I have a friend working on a project for me."

"What kind of project?" Rich asked skeptically.

Mycroft let a small smile form. "He's working on eyes, eyes that look human but are robotic. He's a very smart fellow and if he makes them right we'll be able to put them in Sherlock."

Everyone was silent; they couldn't believe what they hear. "So I'll be able to see?" Sherlock piped up.

"Yes," his brother answered back. "You'll be able to see and I can make up a whole different life for you. You'll be safe."

Sherlock knew he was lying; he was sure his parents knew also but if it kept peace at home he was willing to take the false hope. He knew that he couldn't be permanently erased from existence. People talked; someone from his past, maybe even the neighbors, will be persuaded to expose the truth about him. Eventually someone would talk and he would be taken from their home and most likely killed. He knew he couldn't forgo the inevitable.

"When will they be ready?" Sherlock eagerly asked.

"At most, it'll take him a year to finish them," Mycroft explained. "He could have them done sooner if nothing disrupts him."

Richard scoffed. "Stop filling the boy's head with lies," he told him. "I'm all for keeping him out of the public eye but there's no need to give him hope on something that will never happen."

Sherlock didn't care what his father said; he would believe Mycroft 'til he died. If he said he was going to see then Sherlock was going to see. He felt an overwhelming feeling of happiness; tears began falling from his eyes. "Thank you Mycroft," he whispered.

X

Sherlock spent half a year in hiding. He would always lock himself in his room when he heard the loud doorbell ring and on his father's command crawl under his bed and in to the hidden crawl space. He got used to hiding all the time and barely left his room. He lost a lot of weight because he never went down to dinner. Miranda was worried for him; he had a history of serious health problems before and she didn't want them to come back. If they did they couldn't take him to the doctors, it was too risky to leave the house. Too many people were being taken right off the street and no one did anything to help.

She hated the law passed months before. People with deformities were not to be helped under any circumstances; if you do you'll be punished in a way the captor saw fit. She was glad that she got Mycroft's help before everything was too far gone to be stopped. Miranda couldn't believe what England was turning in to. She had a small ray of hope though. Some people were standing up against the new laws and fighting against the idiocy that was ruling over them.

Sherlock listened to his mother whenever she came in to his room and told him all about what was happening in the world outside their home. He would sit there and absorb all the information, calculating the odds of them ever winning against an army. They weren't high; almost nonexistent, but at least there was a chance.

One day Sherlock was alone in the house, practicing his violin. He heard the doorbell ring when he paused at a rest, and tried to remain calm. He wasn't by the door but he knew that people could see him from a window. He tried not to move; he didn't know who was at the door.

"Hey kid," a man yelled. Sherlock swore under his breath; he was seen. "Hey, are you deaf or what? Come open this door."

Sherlock placed his violin gently on the couch next to him and made his way towards the front door. The man was with the government, Sherlock could tell, only people working under the government had the right to demand entrance in to a home. The teenager reached the door and felt around for the handle. He sighed in relief when his hand finely hit it and he was able to open the door. "Hello, I'm Henry Anderson, with the RA, are your parent's home?" the man said, his voice gruff and unemotional.

Sherlock looked up at the angle he figured he had to look to seem like he was looking him in the eyes. "They're just out back," he answered truthfully. He knew lying wasn't going to get him anywhere in the situation. He hoped that it would get Anderson away from him but he could still hear the man breathing and smell the coffee on his breath. Sherlock backed away a little trying to escape the awful smell. "If you just follow the path around the garden then you'll find them."

"It says here on this clipboard that Richard and Miranda Holmes have one son," Anderson continued, ignoring the teenager. "Are you Mycroft Holmes?"

Sherlock had to shove his rising panic but down in to the pit of his stomach. "Yes," he got out past the lump forming in his throat.

Anderson made a disappointed noise and Sherlock knew he didn't get away with the lie. "You see," he said, "I know Mycroft Holmes, and you are definitely not him."

Sherlock did the only rational thing he could think of. He slammed the door in the other man's face and bolted in the other direction. He was lucky he knew where things were in his house, he wouldn't have been able to run away. He heard the door slam open behind him and he increased his speed. He was going too fast and ran in to a chair. He tripped and struggled to get up.

Anderson fired off a shot and missed Sherlock fortunately. He was almost to the teen trying to stand again when he was tackled to the ground. He was able to hold on to his gun. He looked up at his attacker and saw Rich holding him to the ground getting ready to punch him. Anderson raised his gun freezing the man in his actions. "Get off me and I'll let you live," he growled.

Richard held his hands up and stood. "Leave my house," he demanded.

Anderson laughed; he had no right to order him to leave. He was an agent that was holding up the law, and he had a gun to help him. "I can't leave without your son," he told him with a smile. "You are in violation of law 38 section B; all people with deforms must be registered. He is not on the registered list; you are keeping a fugitive in your house."

"Richard, do something," Miranda whispered harshly to her husband.

Sherlock hoisted himself up slowly and Anderson was by him quickly slapping cuffs on to his hand. Sherlock was surprised by the sudden movement and tried to jerk away. An arm was wrapped around his throat securely. "I'll let you two live if you let me take your son," he told them. "I promise nothing will happen to him while in out custody."

Sherlock heard Richard take an intake of breath. "Just let me go," he cut his father off. "We all knew this was going to happen anyway."

"That's a good freak," Anderson said as he started dragging Sherlock away. He could hear his mother's protests and his father running after them when they were already out of the house. He was thrown in to a boot of a car roughly and the lid crashed shut.

As they drove away Sherlock could still hear the hysteric cries from his mother. He knew he didn't have much longer to live; all he could do was wish for a quick and painless death.

X

Sherlock woke up suddenly and tried to pull his hands down but his hands were chained above his head. He was had another dream about dying, and like every other time he woke before the deed was done. He wished for the executioner to call his name so he could finally leave the wicked world behind.

The concrete was cold against his bare skin that wasn't covered by thin boxers making him shiver. His possessions were taken when he was thrown in the cell; the warden believed that deforms didn't have the right to own anything but his underpants. He was in the prison for seven months, sitting on the floor naked, not allowed to leave except to go out to the work yard and do his job.

His job was to move tons of bricks to the other prisoners across the yard. It took him weeks to learn his way around the yard and how to load up the bricks on to his hauler without spilling them. He could hear the overseers laughing at him as he struggled to get around. He was weak from the lack of food and was growing weaker as the days passed. He wasn't sure how they could think he would be able to work on a diet of moldy bread and some type of liquid that wasn't anything he's had before. He would have been able to work better if he was fed better; he would have learned to get past his lack of vision like he always did. But he wasn't strong enough to get past the barrier and failed his job day in and day out. Not that he cared; he rather not get any work done for his enemies.

Sherlock had a cellmate. She was nice and seemed too innocent to be in the jail. Her name was Molly Hooper and she was in for having an extra finger when she was younger. He didn't talk to her much; he would be surprised if she even knew his name, but he knew everything about her.

Molly grew up with her two parents in a nice town that was destroyed by the government when she was taken. The whole town was shielding her against the RA's that kept coming to take her. The military went in with tanks and, in Sherlock's opinion, overreacted and killed the whole town. She watched her parents get killed before being knocked unconscious and taken to the jail.

Molly liked a boy who was taken to a camp Sherlock heard about before. The boy's name was James; he was taken when he was much younger, before the rules started getting passed. She wished that she could tell him that she liked him; she never was able to before he left. She wanted to find him and tell him before she died.

She didn't get to. Her name was called two weeks after she confessed that to Sherlock. Sherlock was jealous; he was there longer than her and she got to leave first, but he was also sad. Molly Hooper was his first friend sort of; she was more the first person to talk to him without caring if he ignored them. He didn't want her to die; she deserved so much better than the life she was given. She deserved to be back in the little town she grew up in surrounded by people who loved her.

Sherlock was alone. All day he thought of ways he could end it. Everything seemed better than the place he was in and he knew he was never going to get out; the only other option was to be buried six feet under.

X

It was Sherlock's seventeenth birthday; he was out in the yard in the freezing cold carrying his bricks from one side to the other. His bony knees were knocking against each other under the extra weight of the bricks on his shoulders. He didn't care that it was his birthday; he didn't care that it was almost a whole year he's been in the jail; he didn't care about anything anymore.

He unloaded his bricks in an already large pile. He stepped forward and somebody grabbed his arm. "Whoa there," a familiar voice said, "you almost walked in to someone's railing." It was Dimmock, someone who always looked out for him.

Sherlock whispered his thanks and continued on with his work. He didn't have a cane to use any more so he relied on the people around him to make sure he didn't walk in to anything. It didn't always work though, a few times he walked in to a board someone was carrying and was out for hours. He counted his steps carefully so he knew when he was at the other brick pile, it took him 123 steps to get from one end to the other; when he reached the pile he dropped to his knees and started loading one brick on top of the other.

He placed his scrawny shoulders under the wooden pegs and lifted his body up. He felt his heart racing in his chest but he disregarded it. He didn't have time to worry about it. '1…2…3,' he counted in his head. He could feel himself swaying from side to side but kept on moving. '12…13…14…15,' he continued.

For a second Sherlock couldn't feel his heart beating anymore. He smiled before falling to the dirty ground. The bricks spilled everywhere and no one even turned to look at him.

Sherlock Holmes was dead.

X

Mycroft was devastated to hear that his brother was caught. He did his best to stop anyone from going to his parent's home; the one day that they did Sherlock had to be taken. He wanted to beat himself up, but he didn't have time for that, he needed to put all his power in to helping Sherlock. He had his friend, Gregory Lestrade, working on the eyes nonstop stop and told him to work quicker. He wanted them ready for when he got Sherlock.

He had a group of men, sworn to secrecy, searching all the jails for his little brother. There were twelve in England that held people who were different, and four of them weren't holding Sherlock, or he was already dead in one of them and his men missed him.

Mycroft felt sick at the idea. He knew it was most likely going to happen but it set a fire deep inside him to do whatever it was to help Sherlock. He stopped Lestrade from working on the eyes and had him design a heart. He never let up on the man until he got it done. Every day he would yell at him to work harder and faster; he wasn't proud of himself but he didn't care.

When the designs were finished Mycroft ordered Lestrade to go back to work on the eyes. The eldest Holmes brother brought the plans to his own work shop and started working on the heart himself. He knew his brother put up barriers around his heart and didn't let anyone in so he was going to respect his wishes and allow no one but himself touch the object.

X

Mycroft was placing a gear in place when a knock was heard from his door. He was almost done with the heart, a few more honest days of work and he would have it working. He dropped his tools and stood from his chair.

Lestrade was standing behind the door with a gloomy look upon his face. "Mycroft, we found Sherlock," he announced. "He died sometime in the last few days; one of the guys caught his face when they were wheeling him to the morgue."

Mycroft stood in silence for a few moments, trying to wrap the information around his head. His little brother was dead; he was prepared for that. "Tell them to act immediately," he ordered. "I want Sherlock's body here as soon as possible."

Greg didn't move; he stared at his friend before signing. "Are you sure the heart will be enough?" he asked. He designed the thing but he was sure the brain could not be revived after death, and if it was there would be heaps of damage done to it.

"Don't worry about that," Mycroft snapped, "just go get him." He pushed the other man out the door and flew back to his desk. He needed to get the heart done quicker than his estimated time. He thought about his brother's brain as he worked; he knew how he could get it going again but there was always the chance of it not working and he wouldn't get anything accomplished.

X

Mycroft didn't know how long it took him to finish the heart; he just remembered that every piece had a place to go and he had to put it there. His door banged open and Lestrade was standing there out of breath. "He's here," he got out before running back to where he just came.

Mycroft stood quickly from his chair pushing it back to the wall. He grabbed the finished heart, the cold metal making his warm fingers sting, and he ran to the makeshift operating room they created. He stopped when he saw his brother's skinny pale body lying on the wooden table. He was staring at the bare chest that wasn't moving, the eyes that were closed. He wished they would open and the last year to be one of the dirty tricks Sherlock always tried to play on him.

He shook himself out of his thoughts and stepped further in to the room. He gently placed the heart on a counter and turned to Lestrade. "We need to start operating immediately," he told him. "We'll start with the eyes, it'll take less time."

Lestrade nodded; he washed his hands and started his work. He was able to get Sherlock's original eyes out without causing damage to the nerves and muscles connecting the eyes to the body.

Mycroft felt sick to his as he stared at the lifeless eyes being discarded to the side. He thought back to the first time he saw the dull blue eyes; he thought he broke his brother then, now he was trying to repair him.

Lestrade had Mycroft hold the fake eyes so he could work on connecting the nerves with the wires hanging off the end. Mycroft was surprised how life like the eyes looked; the irises were even the same color of Sherlock's eyes. He wouldn't have been able to tell the difference if he didn't watch the man make them himself.

Once they were in Mycroft took the scalpel; he was in no way a surgeon but he was going to do his best. He couldn't trust anyone when it came to his brother's health and safety; not even his parents and he learned that the hard way. He placed the scalpel on his chest and pressed down; his hand was shaking as he pulled the blade across the chest. He took in a deep breath and calmed himself down; he needed to be leveled headed if he wanted his brother back.

X

Mycroft strapped a metal band around Sherlock's head; attached to the band were two spark plugs and they were connected to a large electric machine. He was going to pull an old fashion trick that always worked. "Lestrade," he called, "you might want to stand back a bit." He placed his hand on the lever and took in a deep breath.

He shut his eyes and let his memories over flow. His whole life he was distant to everyone; Sherlock was a little different though. He always felt the need to protect his brother; he wanted to make sure he learned everything that he could. He didn't want to think about what could happen if the whole thing went wrong because then he would have failed Sherlock and the brilliant brain that he had would be wasted.

Mycroft snapped his eyes open, glanced at the head of dark curls and pulled the switch. The whole room was dashed in blinding light and electricity was coursing through the air.

There was a loud gasp as Sherlock sat up on the table. His eyes were wide and moving uncontrollably as electricity flowed through his body. His heart was beating faster than it ever did before and he felt as if he was being torn in two. Just as it started the electric shock stopped suddenly and he fell backwards on the table unconscious.

Mycroft's eyes widened with joy. He tore off his protective glasses and ran towards his brother's side. He touched his fingers to his pulse and felt for a strong beat beneath his fingers. "Lestrade!" he yelled when he felt the rapid pulse. He never in his whole life felt more relieved than he did at that moment. All of his worries were washed away, Sherlock was alive and that's all that mattered to him. "We did it!" he hollered. He grabbed Sherlock's hand and squeezed it in his own. "We did it," he repeated in a low whisper.

X

Mycroft stayed by Sherlock's side for days waiting for him to wake up again. He never let go of the bony hand, not even when he fell asleep; the only sleep he got was when his body couldn't take it and made him pass out. He didn't want to leave him just in case something went wrong and he wasn't there to save him like last time.

Sherlock stirred one morning when Mycroft was eating his breakfast. Mycroft dropped his plate squeezed his brother's hand. He watched as Sherlock opened his eyes and stare up at him in confusion. Mycroft looked back down at him; his heart dropping a little. "Do you know who I am?" he asked.

Sherlock snorted. "You look fatter than I thought," he laughed. He sat up slowly and took a look around. Everything was weird to him; he wondered if it was like an infant was looking at the world from new eyes. "What happened to me?" He was going to skip the obvious question on why he could suddenly see.

Mycroft frowned as he sat back down in his chair. "You died in the jail you were put in," he explained. "Some men of mine found you and brought you back here. You have your new eyes as you can already tell and a new heart; your other one gave out on you. It's only logical that you got a new one." Now that Mycroft thought about it he wasn't sure why he really made the heart. Maybe he knew that it would be the first organ to go and the others didn't need to be saved. But he was glad that he did; he had his little brother back.

"Is that why my heart is beating so quickly," Sherlock stated as he lifted a hand to his chest. He could feel it moving inside him.

"I wouldn't say beat," Mycroft said. "The heart isn't a real one, it's a mechanical one. It shifts inside itself to get the blood pumping through your body. But if you prefer beats to shifts then yes, it will beat rapidly till your body gets used to it and then it will slow down to normal pace." Mycroft tried to contain his smile when Sherlock stared at him. His eyes the same blue that they always been were wide; suddenly they changed to a grayish color. "That's interesting," he mumbled quietly.

"So," Sherlock went on not hearing his brother's words, "you give me robotic eyes and a mechanical heart; anything else you want to add to my body?"

Mycroft shook his head. "No," he said softly. "You're safe now, nothing needs to be changed."

Sherlock started laughing again; he was over joyed to be alive again. Mycroft noted that his eyes changed colors again; they were back to the blue. It seemed like his eyes changed with his moods.

X

Sherlock spent months hiding out in Mycroft's house. He was shown what everything looked like; he already knew what all the things were but it was different knowing what something was to actually seeing it.

He got to know Greg, an old school buddy of Mycroft's; he figured he was bright but not as much as him. He liked to accompany the older man to his work shop and observe him as he did things. He would laugh and point out his mistakes whenever they occurred, which was often. Greg would snap at Sherlock and ask what he knew; he was blind all his life.

Sherlock would always retort with, 'You don't need to see to understand Lestrade'. Then he would take over and show him how to do everything right.

But even that was getting boring; he wanted excitement, adventure! Anything to get his new heart pumping; so, he decided to leave. He stayed up late in to the night like usual, waiting for everyone to fall asleep before he walked out of his room. He reached his new trench coat that he found in Mycroft's closet and was about to turn it on when the light came on.

Sherlock paused in his movements before continuing with his eyes closed and taking in a deep breath. "Lestrade," he said calmly as he turned on his heel, "I never expected you to be awake at this hour."

"I would like to say I never expected you to leave," Lestrade started, "but we both know that would be a lie. I understand why you want to leave, but remember you don't have to get involved in this war."

Sherlock flashed him an angry look, his eye turning a blood red. "Of course I do," he almost shouted. "I may not be the most understanding person but I know right from wrong and what has and is happening now is wrong. I have the chance to help stop the stupid government that we let take over. You aren't going to stop me either."

Lestrade stared at him with a resigned look. "Mycroft will be devastated," he told him in a feeble attempt to make him stay. "He just got you back."

Sherlock clenched his fist around the ends of his coat and wrapped it tighter around his body. "Mycroft will understand," he uttered. He turned back around and left without another word.

X

Sherlock was crouched up against a stone wall, his hands stretched out over the small fire he made to keep himself warm. He spent three years living out on the street, taking down any RAs he could find. He was working his way to the higher ups; he wasn't going to stop either, not till he got the leader. He had people all over England helping him track down any information he could get on the man.

He heard a noise at the opening of the alleyway; he quickly doused the fire and tucked himself even further behind the dumpster. He could hear heavy footsteps as a few people walked in the dark. Sherlock blinked his eyes twice and turned on another perk of having robotic eyes, his night vision. He didn't see any weapons in their hands, and they didn't look threatening. They were probably just a bunch of teenagers hanging around after curfew.

Sherlock slowly stood, making sure not to make any noise and slid out from behind the dumpster. His raggedy shoes scraped over the gravel on the ground; Sherlock cringed but didn't stop moving. He made it out of the alley without being noticed by any other the kids and started down the street as casually as he could. He wasn't afraid of being caught; he had his fake identification cards and a good enough excuse on why he was out and about.

He looked around; trying to find something to help him get out of London till morning. He scanned the cars; all of them were locked and would make too much noise if he tried to break in to them. He continued his search until he found a motorcycle.

Sherlock figured it would be easier to hotwire it without making himself stand out. He finished the hotwiring swiftly and climbed on to the bike. It came to life and he was off.

X

Sherlock rode all night; not knowing or caring where he was going. When he finally did stop the road was covered by trees blocking out the afternoon sun. He was out of the city longer than he was expecting but he needed to clear his head.

He shut his eyes listening to the stillness of the forest around him. His tranquility was broken by a loud crack, it sounded as if someone fired off a gun. He looked around, the shooter was close to him at all but he could tell what direction they were shooting from. He was about to start riding again when he heard a heavy object hit the trees above him.

Sherlock looked up at saw a black object laying over the branches. He looked around before hopping off the bike and hurrying over to the tree. He started climbing; when he reached the thing he was surprised.

On top of black feathered wings was a man. He was bleeding from a shoulder wound he must have just gotten from the bullet that was fired. Sherlock quickly took off his coat and his shirt. He ripped up his shirt the best he could and wrapped it around the wound. If the creature was shot then the people who shot him might be looking for him.

Sherlock put his coat back on and hefted the creature over his shoulder. He gripped on to a branch as he tried to get better footing and started to climb down the way he came up. He wasn't going to leave him to die up in the tree; Sherlock would have lost an interesting puzzle if he did that.

**I hope that was good enough for you guys. I don't really like it but I want to get it out so back because I've been working on it so long. I'm going to leave the rest to you guys. If you want more please tell me, if you want me to stop writing this and delete it from existence I'll check my schedule. BYE! **


	3. Chapter 3

**So everyone, I have the next chapter for you. I hope you all will like it. I'm surprised people liked the last chapter; I thought it was a bad one. Well any way that's it. Also I might upload this again because I didn't read over it for any mistakes. See ya.**

John woke to the loud roar of an engine. He tried to open his eyes but they were glued shut from exhaustion. He moved lethargically backwards; he couldn't feel any of his limbs, they were numb. His breathing became quick; he wasn't sure what was wrong with him. Last thing he remembered was flying, then the briefest moment of the sky. He was trying to escape the camp; he figured something happened to him when he was trying. 'Was I caught?' he asked himself. He didn't want to go back.

He felt a rush of air and suddenly all the traces of sleep were gone and his eyes shot open. John saw the sky flying past him. He was jerked forward; his head hit a solid object and he saw the road beneath him. He started to panic again and his talons retracted and he could feel them go through flesh. "I am not going back!" John yelled as he leaned to the side making them swerved on the bike. He was willing to die than go back to get tortured again.

"John!" the driver yelled back as he tried getting them back on the road. "I'm not trying to harm you!"

The words were lost on John; he was in fight or flight mode and he wasn't going to fly from this fight. He felt the engine stop and the bike came to an abrupt halt. The back tire skidded out; John was forced forward and he held tighter on to the man. He would have been able to tear the man to shreds if he could lift his other arm but it didn't seem to be working.

The guard lifted John off the seat and tried to pry his talons from his ribcage. "John, my name is Sherlock Holmes," he said, "I'm not taking you back anywhere."

John seemed to calm down; the words sinking in. He couldn't tell if the man was lying or not. His claws went back in to their homes within his fingers. He dropped backwards to the ground. Searing pain shot through his body. He wanted to scream but the sound died before it left his throat. Hands were on his shoulder and he was brought to his feet. John backed away from Holmes and looked over his body. He lifted his fingers up to a white shirt that was turning red.

"Did you shoot me?" he asked looking back up at the curly haired man.

He watched as Sherlock shook his head before looking down the road. "If I shot you would I give you my shirt and jacket to stop the bleeding and keep you warm?" he asked; in a tone that made John feel stupid. "We need to get back on the bike."

John looked over the man; he was bleeding from his side, the gashes were about an inch long and definitely deeper. John figured that he was safe enough for him to trust. He wasn't ready to get back on the bike just yet though. "I can fly," he told him.

Sherlock rolled his eyes; John noted the change from grey to yellow. "Your wings are broken," he stated dully. "You were shot out of the air and fell in to trees. Now, we have to get going. I don't think any RA's are going to come down this road, for the most part it's vacant but we can't take the chance."

John didn't know what he was talking about. He had no clue what a RA was, or the danger they seemed to bring with them. Sherlock climbed on to the bike and started it up. John looked around and down over himself; he was dirty, his camouflaged pants were tattered, and the coat that he was given reached past his aching wings and was barely above the ground. He walked over to the strange man and hopped on the back of the bike. He figured he had two options. Be left behind to die or get caught or go along with Sherlock Holmes and hope his gut was telling him to do the right thing.

X

They were still on the road twenty minutes later. John was nodding off, every now and then his grip loosening on the other man's midsection. He was losing a lot of blood; he needed to get himself sewed up. He hoped to reach their destination soon or he wasn't going to make. He voiced his thoughts to Sherlock but he was quickly shut up. He learned quickly that Sherlock wasn't going to listen to him. John was dying and he couldn't do anything to stop it from happening.

He tightened his hold; he didn't want to fall off and cause even more damage. His head was against Sherlock's bare back, blood was staining it red. He felt different; not because of the lack of blood, the air felt different, people even felt different from inside the camp. John began to wonder if his parents knew he would turn out the way he did, on the run with a stranger that seemed to save him from the people they sent him to. He shook his head; he didn't want to think about them.

It began to rain; John told Sherlock they had to stop again. The man continued to ignore him. John just held tighter to the goose bumped skin and tried to press himself closer to the warm that was radiating off him. He could hear a strange noise coming from his chest. It sounded nothing like a normal heart; he wasn't sure what it was.

Siren's sounded off behind them; John heard Sherlock curse as he slowed down the motorbike and brought it to the side of the road. "What's happening?" John slurred. He tried to look behind him but his vision was doubled and could see nothing. "Who's here?"

"Will you shut up?" Sherlock hissed as he situated himself. "Just go with whatever I say okay?"

John dropped his head down on the back of Sherlock's shoulder and mumbled his reply. He didn't have the strength to do anything else. The rain beat down on his head and made his eyes shut.

Heavy boots hit the gravel and got closer with each step. John heard Sherlock muttering about how they were lucky that there was only one RA. John opened bleary eyes to see another man standing next to them; he looked angry and a little disturbed. "ID, both of you," the man ordered.

Sherlock leaned forward; allowing John's wound to be shown. "I have my ID sir," he stuttered. He reached in to his trouser pockets to pull it out. "My friend here doesn't."

The RA casually put his hand on the butt of his gun. John started panicking; he didn't have any ID except for his tags and he was sure that wasn't going to help him any. "Why doesn't he have his ID?" the RA asked.

Sherlock swallowed nervously. "Well," he said slowly, "we were attacked sir; by a deform. He had a gun and shot my friend and took his ID."

John's head was reeling; he was amazed how the man he was clinging could act. He almost believed him himself. The RA's hand lowered from his gun and he seemed to relax a bit. "Did you catch the deform's face?" he asked. He stepped towards John; the birdman could hear his heart pounding in his ears. He didn't want the man any closer to him than needed. The RA must have seen his worried face because he told him he wasn't going to hurt John. "If you let me take some blood and let me run it through our system then I can get your information. I can also get you guys to a hospital."

"Thank you sir," Sherlock told him.

John knew Sherlock was panicking also; his heart was getting louder, maybe it was just the adrenalin running through his veins. He made a split second decision; he used the little strength he had left; he reached out the short distance between him and the RA and grabbed a hold of his gun. He was quick enough to take it out of the holster and fire off a shot.

The RA fell to the ground lifeless with a small whole in his head. John still had the gun raised and was breathing heavily. Sherlock's eyes moved from the spot the man was just standing in to John. "Well that was a little unexpected," he stated as he got off the bike. He bent down next to the RA with a smile on his face. He sat the body up and started undressing him. "I guess I'm going to be Henry Knight 'til we get to London."

John blinked a few times; his eyes were going dry of staying open. He never actually shot a person before. He glanced down at Sherlock who was carrying the RA's clothes. "First time you ever shot someone?" Sherlock asked with a knowing look on his face.

John swallowed and nodded. He leaned down and placed the gun on the ground. His fingertips were tingling; all the fear was drained from his body. He felt alive, more than any daring escape with Jim. "Jim!" he yelped when he remembered his friend. He had to save Jim. "I need to go back."

"You said earlier that you couldn't go back," Sherlock said as he started to drag the RA's body to the side of the road. "We need to get moving soon, but first we can see if this idiot has a first aid kit in his jeep."

John wanted to protest but he needed to be patched up. He pushed thoughts of his friend to the back of his mind; he followed behind Sherlock to the back of the jeep. Sherlock pulled out a large black bag with a green star made of chains inside another star made of chains that was red. He opened the back door and ordered John to sit. "Have you ever sewn up a person before?" John asked. He watched tiredly as Sherlock rummaged through the bag.

"You have nothing to worry about," Sherlock muttered as he started to take off the blood soaked shirt wrapped around John's wound. "The bullets gone all the way through." John let out a sigh of relief. He wasn't in the clear yet but at least he didn't have to worry about getting the bullet out. He hissed in pain as Sherlock got on to cleaning his shoulder. "So," continued Sherlock, "tell me about the place you were being held."

John looked down at him with an incredulous look. "Why do you want to know about that?" he asked through gritted teeth. He didn't get a reply from the other man. "Fine," he breathed out, "it's a government based camp, or used to be a government based camp. Now I think it went off the grid; it's losing money and isn't able to feed everyone there."

"Are there more things like you?" Sherlock asked. He pulled the thread tighter as he worked across the tan skin.

"I'm not a thing," John growled. "I am a human being just like you. Just because I have wings doesn't make me any less human."

John was expecting an apology; nothing big just a small sorry and a rephrasing of the question. But instead the response he got was far from any type apology. Sherlock said, "You're not considered human."

"Are you one of those people who are against abnormalities?" John question; he wiggled trying to a further distance from the man.

"Yes," Sherlock stated bluntly, "I also carried you from a tree and am now sewing you up because I want you dead. Don't be an idiot John, use your head."

Silence overtook them; Sherlock was able to finish up the stitches and John sat there feeling like an idiot. He shouldn't have asked the question without thinking first. He decided he needed to say something. "I'm sorry," he mumbled. "You're right, I'm an idiot. Also, to answer your question, yes there are others like me. They don't have wings, but other abilities."

"Your friend Jim," Sherlock started; he cut the string and ordered John to turn so he could get the back, "what abilities does he have?"

"He was part spider," John recounted. "Jim Moriarty, almost like Spiderman. I had to leave him back at the base; Jensen got him before we could escape." He shut his eyes; he has failed his friend. He could have stayed and not have been so selfish to leave someone close to him behind. If he stayed behind though he would have been tortured and Jensen would never let him even leave a cell; he didn't want that. "I have to go back and save him."

"You can't save anyone when you're like this," Sherlock stated knowingly. "Once you are healed you can go save all your friends."

John shook his head. "You don't understand," he whispered, "he said Jensen was going to kill everyone within two weeks."

"That's ridiculous," Sherlock huffed. "Why would one man kill something he created?"

"I told you he's running out of money to keep feeding everyone," John repeated. "Jim is a very smart man, he's right about everything." He felt Sherlock cut the string as he finished up. "He also wouldn't lie to me." He pushed away the thoughts of his friend during the nights he would stay awake, his eyes glowing as he spun small webs; he wasn't going to think of Jim scaring him.

Sherlock took out the gauze and started to properly wrap John's shoulder. "Whatever," he uttered, "you have faith in anyone you want."

When he was done being doctored himself John turn and told Sherlock to let him see the cut he put on his stomach. Sherlock protested but after John told him he would bleed through the shirt and if they were stopped again that would give them away. John reached forward and touched lightly around the largest cut. Sherlock leapt back making a pained noise. "Sorry, they can't retract all the way in to my fingers, they won't fit," he told him. "I'll be more careful." He looked over them; they weren't too deep. They would just need a bandage to put over them. He picked up the gauze and started to neatly wrap it around his abdomen. "It's my turn to ask questions. What's a RA?"

"Reichenbach Agents," Sherlock told him. "They work for the government as lackeys. They go all around Great Britain looking for deforms like you and me."

"Like you? You don't look like you have any deformity," John pointed out.

"I was blind for the first part of my life," he explained. "An RA came to our house and took me to jail."

John looked up at him confused. "But you're not blind now," he stated. "Why is that?"

Sherlock's head shot towards the left and his eyes narrowed. "We have to go," he announced. "You stay back here; better chance of you being spotted if you were up here." Sherlock hopped in to the driver's seat of the jeep.

John quickly pulled himself in to the backseat and shut the door. The tires squealed as Sherlock stepped on the pedal. John gripped the head rest behind him as he tried to keep himself up right and off the floor.

Eventually Sherlock slowed down. John relaxed; he laid down on his stomach in the back seat and let exhaustion take over and drag him in to sleep.

X

When John woke next he was on a dusty bed. He lifted up his head; dust filled his nose and made him sneeze. He looked around; the room was bland and gave him no clue to where he was. He used his good arm to lift himself up further so he could sit upright on the bed. He got on his feet and took small quiet steps towards the door. He pushed it open and peered outside.

The hall was empty; he could hear voice not far away though. One was Sherlock's deep baritone and the other one he could hear sounded like a woman. He figured it was safe to venture further in to the hall. There was just the door he came out of and a staircase at the other end. He walked closer to the stairs and to the top.

"John," Sherlock's voice called out.

John licked his lips nervously and started his journey down the stairs. He poked his head just around the door frame to take a cautious scan around the room. He saw Sherlock sitting in a chair and an older women standing over him like a mother. "Where am I, and how long have I've been asleep?" he asked.

"221 B, sweetie," the lady said, "my home and sometimes a safe place for Sherlock and his friends."

"Associates," Sherlock corrected her. "You've only been sleeping for a day or two." He stood from his chair and flounced over to John. "Now, you should be able to join me on a mission."

"I don't think he'll be up for that," the lady said disappointingly. "I think he wouldn't want to go on a mission of any sorts."

John looked her over; she seemed to be really worried about him. "I think I might, Miss?" he left the end open for her.

"Mrs. Hudson I think John would like to hear about my mission before he decides if he wants to join me or not," Sherlock stated in a clipped tone. John nodded in agreement. Sherlock let a sly smile cross his face. "I'm going to save your friend Jim."

John stepped back; he was surprised to hear that the other man was going to help him. "Of course I'll go," he told him.

"Until then you should stay up in the room you woke up in," Sherlock told him. He started to move around the room, picking up a few objects and putting them in his pockets. "In the mean time I'll be out."

"Wait!" John hollered before Sherlock could descend the stairs any further.

"John," Sherlock sighed, "you have to stay upstairs because Mrs. Hudson can't stop RA's from coming here. We've been lucky so far and the curtains never flutter; I can't guarantee your safety."

John let out a laugh. "I was just wondering where you were going," he stated. "I'm a little interested."

Sherlock grabbed his coat hanging on the railing and pushed his arms through the sleeves. "I'm going to collect more information, visit my associates, and hopefully find you a fake ID," he explained. "We can't have you running around London without a name and a face." Without another word Sherlock left in a flourish.

John stood in the door frame, a small smile on his face. "Do you want something to eat?" Mrs. Hudson asked as she came up behind him. "Sherlock said you should stay up in your room but I think you can eat down here just this once."

X

John was in the room for three days bored out of his mind. He wished there was more in the room than just the bed and an empty dresser. There was a closet door but it was locked. He resorted to counting the times the fan turned in ten minutes. It wasn't the most engaging thing ever but it was better than lying face first on a bed day after day.

He was given a plate of food for breakfast and dinner along with the morning paper. Mrs. Hudson would bring it up to him every day, and every day he would ask about Sherlock only to be told that he hasn't shown his face around the flat in a while. John was anxious to have him back; he wanted to get Jim as soon as he could. He spent hours thinking of different outcomes that could happen when they went after him.

John stood by the window, the curtains were drawn closed, but there was a crack that shown to the street down below. He watched as people passed by without knowing that the sweet old lady of 221 Baker street was harboring a deform. He wondered if half of them were hiding deformities themselves. He wasn't aware how the government found out about those kinds of things either; unless they were noticeable.

No one on the street seemed to care about the other people walking around them. In the papers it showed that people sold out their neighbors; they called the police to tell them there was a deform living next to them. They were rewarded for giving up those close to them. John found it disgusting how humans could do that. He wondered if the problems of England spread to any other nations. He hoped it wouldn't; he hoped that they would come and help them with their government.

He stepped away from the window and sat back down on the gray bed. The sun was going down and John was tired. He's been getting too much sleep; he would go to bed early and wake up when he had breakfast then go back to sleep 'til the afternoon. He couldn't remember any other time he was able to sleep like that. He pulled the cold pillow under his head and stuck his face in it. His eyes were about to shut when he heard his door push open.

"Sherlock, I told you he would be asleep," Mrs. Hudson's voice sounded hurried. "Leave the poor man alone."

"He's not asleep," Sherlock drawled. He flipped on the light; John turned his head and stared at the intruder. Sherlock stepped further in to the room. "How are you feeling John?"

"Better," John muttered, "shoulders still soar but my wings are healing up nicely."

"That's great," Sherlock said in a flat tone. "Now we need to start planning." He sat on the edge of the bed and started emptying his pockets. There was a brown wallet, a cell phone, and a large map. He picked up the wallet and handed it to John. "This is your new identity. If we ever get stopped you'll be referred to as Luke Venture."

John flipped open the wallet and looked over the information on the card. "Where did you get this?" he asked. Luke was the same height as John, and roughly the same weight, he was marked as normal.

"He's dead," Sherlock said uncaringly. "He has no use for it now and you do, problem solved." John stared him for a few seconds, not sure what to say. He was holding a dead man's life in his hands. "I didn't kill him," Sherlock stated.

"I never said you did," John said back quickly. They were silent for a few more seconds until John asked, "So I'm not going to exactly look like this guy and I'm not that normal looking; how am I supposed to be passed off as him?"

"Large coat, one as long as mine will cover your wings perfectly and I can easily fix this with your picture in it," Sherlock explained. "Now, on to real business." He unfolded the mad he had lying next to him. "I picked you up here; the shot came from this direction; is this where your base is?" He pointed to a drawn circle on the map. John nodded. "Okay, I can get a team of about six men to help with this, but right now I need more information on the base. Anything from security to the man you mention earlier."

"Jim?" John questioned.

"No the other person," Sherlock said, "the one that's going to kill everyone."

John's face darkened. "Jensen," he mumbled. John started telling him all about the base. He told him about what happened when someone got there and the little pills they had to take. All about the round the clock patrol of the guards and Jensen always checking up on everyone and the strict rules he had. He told him about the times they had time to go outside and the cells people were sent to when they broke the rules.

All through the explanation John had to control his emotions so he wouldn't get angry with his sorry pathetic life.

X

The next day John was woken up by Sherlock bouncing in to his room. The man threw a long dark coat over him and told him to hurry up. John barely blinked and eye before he was gone. He checked the clock; it was already twelve in the afternoon, and clambered out of bed. He was excited; he was going to save Jim. He got on the large coat as quickly as his jammed up shoulder would let him; he checked the pockets for the ID that Sherlock gave him the day before and took it out once he found it. His face was now in place of the other mans.

He shoved it back in his pocket and ran out of the room. He met up with Sherlock in the living room where he was talking to Mrs. Hudson again. Mrs. Hudson was voicing her concerns about John. She didn't think he was ready to start working his shoulder; the stitches might break she said to Sherlock.

John decided to step in. "Mrs. Hudson," he soothed, "my stitches have already fallen out. I have a hyper healing process; it all depends on what is injured. My shoulder will be fine." He didn't add that it was stiff and hurt when he moved it; she might make a bigger fuss. He turned to Sherlock who had a smug look. "Are we going?"

Sherlock clapped his hands excitably. "Of course," he said. "We need to get on the road; we have people waiting for us." He looked John over before stepping towards him. "You need to button up; people will think something is wrong with you if you're walking around with no shirt on. Oh, put these on too."

John took the shoes from him and put them on his bare feet. He said good bye to Mrs. Hudson and followed Sherlock out of the flat. There was a car parked out in front. Sherlock climbed in to the driver's seat and motioned for John to follow. John looked around once and sat in the passenger's seat. "Who's waiting for us?" he asked as Sherlock pulled off the curb.

"A few people who owe me a favor," Sherlock stated. "I called upon them to help."

John nodded. He placed his hands awkwardly in his lap. He licked his lips and looked out the window. He opened his mouth but quickly shut it. He looked over to Sherlock who was concentrating on the road.

"You have questions," Sherlock stated.

"Just one really," John said. He ran his fingers through his hair then settled it back in to his lap. "How did you know I'll be okay to do this job by today?"

Sherlock glanced at him then back towards the road. "When I was cleaning your shoulder I noticed that you had no cuts or scratches on your arms or legs," he told him.

"Well that doesn't tell you much," John told him.

Sherlock chuckled. "Yes it does," he said. "After you were shot you fell through the trees. I'm not too sure but I think that will leave a little you cut up. There were none on you at all. The only conclusion to that is you heal quicker than a normal person. I also know that you escaped so you can help fight against the government."

"How could you possibly know that?" John asked disbelievingly.

Sherlock was smiling broadly now. "The way you reacted after I told you, you weren't considered human," he said. "Also the way you talked about the base. You knew about what was happening out in the real world and nothing was being done inside the camp. You believed that you should be put in to action and you thought that Jensen was going to kill you all; so you had to get out.

"That's good," John praised. "That's amazing actually; I would have never figured that out."

"Of course you wouldn't," Sherlock said.

"What is that supposed to mean?" John asked offended.

Sherlock said, "It means you're an idiot."

A radio cackled to life. "Sherlock we're on your tail," a man said from the other side of the radio. "I have the others with me; we collected the weapons we need."

"That's good Angelo," Sherlock said in to the receiver. "Did you inform everyone what the plan was?"

"Yes everyone knows what they're supposed to do," Angelo announced.

"Good," Sherlock said and dropped the receiver.

John turned around and noticed a van following them. He turned back around and huffed. "What plan are you guys talking about?" he asked.

"It's better if you don't know it," Sherlock told him stiffly.

"Is it because I'm an idiot?" John asked.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Everyone's an idiot," he said, "it's nothing against you. We're can't tell you the plan or the plan will be ruined."

John took in a deep breath and crossed his arms. He decided not to say anything more. If he did he would get himself angry and then he could ruin whatever plan Sherlock had. He wouldn't want to do that either.

X

They stopped before they reached the base. Three people got out of the van behind them and walked up to their car. They opened John's door and pulled him out of the vehicle. He took off his jacket and started tying him up.

"Sherlock!" John yelled as he struggled to get free of their grips. They tied something around his mouth to stop him from making noise. They lifted him off the ground and threw him in the trunk. He groaned when his wings were smashed against the inside. Before the trunk was slammed one of the men frowned at him and muttered something to one of the others.

John tried to kick at the sides but his feet were bound. He rubbed his face against the bottom of the trunk trying to get the gag off so he could attract any ones attention. He paused and thought about it; if he attracted any attention it might be the wrong attention. He stopped struggling; he had to just relax. If he remained calm he would be able to make up his own plan.

He took in a few deep breaths through his nose. He brought out his talons and tried to cut at the ropes. He could feel them getting looser and looser and he could move his hands around more freely. Once his hands were out of their bonds he took off the gag and took in a gulp of air. He reached down to his feet and started to cut them free.

John didn't know how long it took him to get free but by the time he was free the car stopped. He smirked; finally he would be able to have the upper hand and prove to Sherlock that he wasn't an idiot. He sure did feel like one though; he should have known that a stranger wouldn't help him.

He heard muffled voices outside the trunk and prepared to attack. He held his breath and waited 'til the trunk was open. His heart leapt forward when the trunk popped open and John jumped out. He landed on the person closest to him; he started attacking the man. He was quickly pulled off but he didn't stop fighting.

"John!" Sherlock yelled in a reprimanding voice.

Everyone stopped and John turned to look at Sherlock. He saw the wreckage behind him. The base was in ruins. John let go of the man he was fighting and took a step forward. He ran a hand through his hair as he looked over the rubble.

Nothing looked as it did before John left a few days before. Only a few walls still stood; the fence around it was torn down. The yard where they hung out in had a crater inside it. Smoke was coming up from large stacks of rocks. It looked like a meteor shower occurred there.

"It looks like your friend was off," Sherlock stated when he came up beside John.

John turned to look at him slowly. He swallowed and shook himself out of his frozen state. He ran towards the base; or what used to be the base, screaming out Jim's name. He heard loud footsteps behind him but he ignored them. When he made it past the ruined fence he came to a halt. He could see more of the devastation.

Bodies laid on the ground none of them moving. Blood was covering them; John walked towards one of them and bent down to get a better look. He covered his mouth; he thought he was going to be sick to his stomach. It was his friend Sarah; she was almost torn in two. He placed his hands on her face and shut his eyes.

John stood up and started searching for any survivors. He walked around; every place he stood it felt familiar, even without the walls. He heard a feeble voice call out for help. He turned, trying to hear the voice again.

"Help," the voice called out again.

John caught a glimpse of someone lying on the ground trying to move. "I found someone!" he yelled to the others he knew were behind him. He ran over to the prone body. "Bri-Bri!"

Brian was another friend of John's. He was half shark; he also was only seven. "John!" the small boy said. He was struggling to breath; his gills were red and swollen. "Water."

"Don't worry I'll get you to water," John told him in a calm soothing voice. He put his arms under Brian and lifted him off the ground. He knew he must be by the swimming pool; all he had to do was get him to the swimming pool. "You're going to be alright."

He ran towards the direction of the pool; he hopped over the piles of stones and tried not to hurt the boy any more. He stopped once he was at the edge of the swimming pool.

There was a little bit of water left in it. John slowly climbed down in to it and lowered Brian in the water. He watched as life came back to the younger kid. He started swimming around the bottom of the pool.

"John," Sherlock said right next to him.

John jumped a little. He turned away from Brian with a smile on his face. It fell when he remembered what Sherlock was going to do. "What do you want?" he growled.

Sherlock let out a sigh. "John I told you we had a plan," he explained, "I told you we couldn't tell you because it would jeopardize the plan."

"Yes, well, what was the plan?" John asked.

"We were going to get inside the base by pretending we captured you and were taking you back," Sherlock said. "We couldn't have you liking us when we did that."

John bit his lip; he turned away from the other man. He felt even more like an idiot after that. He stood up quickly. "Hey Bri-Bri, I'm going to go look for others you just stay in here." He received a splash as an answer. He laughed despite the situation and started his search again.

He spent a few minutes checking bodies for a pulse and he found a few people still alive but needing medical attention. He left them with the others; he trusted them to help his friends. He walked up to the part of the base that was the jail cells. He felt a cold chill run through his body.

John walked forward, there was one wall standing still with the door still intact. He got closer to it and opened it. He saw Jensen sitting on a chair; blood was dripping down his forehead; all around him the walls were down. He smiled, showing off his bloody teeth, when John walked through the door.

"Mr. Watson," Jensen said. He started coughing; blood was coming out. He stood up; his legs were wobbly, and he started walking towards John. "I thought you left me for good."

"Why did you do it?" John asked as he stepped further away from the older man. Jensen looked at him in confusion. "Why did you kill everyone?"

Jensen shook his head. "I didn't kill anyone," he told him. "We were bombed last night; the government must have found out about us. I didn't see it coming." He reached out with his hand to touch John.

John batted it away easily. "Don't touch me," he snarled. "Were you going to kill us?"

"I would never kill any of you," Jensen said, "you're mine. I had such greater plans for every single one of you."

"What kind of plans?" John asked.

"I was training you guys for war," he stated. "Everyone was going to have a part; we were going to save humanity."

John shut his eyes and huffed. "By changing us in to the thing the enemy wants dead, that's smart," he said. "Where was Jim last night?"

"In a cell," Jensen said.

John turned and left the old dying man to himself. He saw Sherlock bending down next to something. He walked over to him and crouched down next to him; fearing the worst.

Sherlock was holding one end of dog tags; he was flipping them over in his hand reading the name over and over again. John reached out and tore the tags from his hands. The name that glistened off the surface was James Moriarty. There was no body in sight and he couldn't lift the huge slab of concrete to see if it was under there; he just had to assume that it was.

John clenched them in his hands, cursing himself for being too slow or too selfish. He stood straight up and put the tags around his wrist. He marched off to where they left the vehicles. He passed the others who were working on the wounded and sat down in the passenger's seat. He put his head in his hands and yelled at himself even more.

He felt someone touch his wing and flinched. "Don't touch me," he hissed.

"Your friends that are alive will be safe," Sherlock stated. "Brian the shark boy will be transported to a close associate of mine who will take care of him and will be able to make something for him to breathe water on land."

"That's great," John said; he tried to smile but he couldn't. "What are we going to do now?"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "What you still want to work with me?" he asked.

"Of course," John told him. "As long as you always tell me the plan first, because if you can't trust me then I can't trust you. Then this partnership will not work out."

Sherlock smiled. "Welcome then," he said. "Our next course of action will be to take down the deform jails."

John smiled back; he was going to defeat a corrupt government and avenge his friend while doing it. He was going to have fun.

**This was really hard to write. It took me about two weeks to do it. I hope it was worth everyone's wait. If you want the next chapter please tell me, if not you can tell me to curl up in to a ball and roll in to the ocean or something like that. BYE! **


	4. Chapter 4

**Alright my friends, I have a new chapter for you. It's been a while since I got up something new. I really hope you like it. I think it's a good one. See ya.**

Sherlock knocked on Mycroft's back door. He hasn't seen the man in years but he knew he would help him no matter what. He hoped that extended to people Sherlock happened to pick up. He turned around; he saw John cradling the unconscious shark-boy to his chest. His eyes were looking at Sherlock expectantly, filled with so much hope for his friend. Sherlock turned back around. He didn't understand how people could show emotion so easily. He couldn't let his emotions over take him, if he did he would get killed.

Emotions clouded judgment. He learned that when he almost got himself killed just because he thought his attacker was a friend. He stayed with a man named Victor Trevor. He didn't tell him that he was a deform; he needed to be safe and telling him did not involve in the staying safe plan. He made the mistake of getting to close and showed too much of himself to the man.

Sherlock was naïve and wasn't the best at controlling his emotions. He trained himself over the years to not show them on his face but now his eyes were literally the window to his soul. He slipped up and allowed himself to get angry. Victor noticed his eyes changing but didn't say anything.

Victor didn't do anything either, until one night when Sherlock was looking over the newspaper; reading all the stories of deforms being taken away and sent to jail; he sneaked in to Sherlock's room and asked Sherlock to take a ride with him. Sherlock trusted him too much. He should have seen the signs; Victor was acting jittery, he jumped every time Sherlock said something. But the genius got in to his friend's car and went for a ride with him.

At the end of that ride Sherlock ended up with a bullet in his side. He's ashamed that he allowed himself to trust Victor who turned out to be an RA. He was stupid enough to find a flat with a man who wanted him dead even if he didn't know he wanted him dead. That's when he met Mrs. Hudson. She saved his life that day; he couldn't remember what happened though.

The door opened; bringing Sherlock out of his old memories and back to the present. Lestrade was standing in the frame; his hair somehow got more silver over the last three years Sherlock has been away. The older man stared at him for a few seconds and then shifted his eyes behind him. He eyed John and the child in his arms before stepping sideways and gesturing with his head for them to enter. "Mycroft is at a meeting right now," he said hurriedly as he navigated them through the house.

"We need the bathtub," Sherlock told him.

Lestrade looked over his shoulder again; he nodded and turned down a hall. He opened a door to a large bathroom. He quickly started the water on the oversized bathtub. He stood up and looked over the guests again. John stepped forward with Brian and slowly lowered him in the rising water. "What's wrong with him?" Lestrade asked as he watched the blond.

"He needs water," John muttered.

They took longer than Sherlock expected to get to Mycroft's. Brian passed out a half an hour before they reached the home. "When will he be back?" Sherlock asked.

Lestrade turned his head away from John and Brian. "I don't know," he admitted. "He doesn't tell me."

Sherlock had to wonder if Mycroft told anyone anything. He remembered that his brother would always get up and **leave**, only a few times would he warn someone who he was going or coming. He had a very erratic behavior at times. But he made it seem respectful and charming instead of rude. "I have a request," he said formally.

"What is it?" Lestrade asked; he leaned closer to Sherlock.

Sherlock shook his head. "Not here," he whispered and nodded towards John, "I don't want him to know." He didn't want John to know his intentions. He waited a moment before turning back to the tub and watched Brian come back to life. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Lestrade staring with his mouth open. "He's one of many who have 'special abilities'."

"How?" Lestrade asked taking a step forward. He bent down and reached his hand out; Brian let him touch his gills gently. Brian giggled when his fingers passed over them. "You're a fascinating little lad aren't you?"

"Can he stay here a while?" Sherlock asked. He knew there was no chance that the kid would survive out on the streets of London if he could only breathe air for a few hours. The best place for him to be would be at his brother's house. His brother would be able to protect him and Lestrade would be able to do Sherlock's favor. "Us too, just for a week though. I need to use your lab."

Lestrade shrugged. "You'll have to speak to Mycroft," he told him. "I have no say in this house. A dog would have more power."

"I wouldn't say that Gregory," Mycroft's posh voice sounded off behind them. "You like to enforce your power whenever you watch the television." Mycroft smiled and looked at Sherlock. "Ah, dear little brother, I'm surprised to see you alive."

"You don't have much faith in me then," Sherlock shot towards him. "I'm here for a favor, unfortunately.

"I'm guessing it has to do with your friends," Mycroft said, he held on to his ever polite smile. "A fish and a bird; thought I would never see the day where gene splicing has gone so far."

John looked panicked and Lestrade looked surprised. He turned to John and stared at him. "He's half bird?" he asked.

"If you weren't so distracted with the child there you would have seen the tip of one of his wings," Mycroft told him. "Don't worry, you jacket is just caught. No one would have noticed it unless they were looking for it."

Sherlock could tell that John was on edge still. His brother may have been polite and always socially correct, but he also had an air around him that screamed 'be afraid'. Sherlock always saw it as an advantage; it would always keep people away from him when he was younger. "This is John Watson," Sherlock introduced, "he's going to be joining me in the fight against you and your friends."

John stood with wide eyes. "Are you saying he's part of the government?" he asked.

"You know full well why I still work there," Mycroft told him. "If you weren't dead to the world I wouldn't even be alive anymore."

Sherlock sent a look to him; it wasn't a glare but it was definitely close to one. "Anyway," he huffed, "I need you to take care of Brian for a while. Keep him safe and out of the government's hands."

Mycroft looked over the boy swimming around in his oversized bathtub. He took in a deep breath and said, "I suppose." He walked up to the edge of the tub; Brian stopped swimming and shook slightly in the corner he ended up in. The older Holmes spun around and nodded to John. "Can I see your wings?"

John looked at Sherlock as if asking him for permission; Sherlock nodded and stood back to watch. John slugged out of his jacket and shook out his dark wings. Sherlock was amazed every time he saw them. They were gorgeous.

Mycroft reached out with his hand and ran his fingers over the soft feathers. Sherlock could see the discontent John was trying to hide on his face. "They are magnificent," Mycroft told him. He walked around so he was facing the back.

"Mycroft," Sherlock said in a sharp tone. "I need to have a word out in the hall with you." He held the door open for the older man and followed him out.

"Green eyes today brother," Mycroft quipped, "are you jealous?"

Sherlock took in a deep breath before letting it out slowly. "I need to stay here for about a week," he told him. "I would appreciate if you didn't personally molest my fellow comrades."

Mycroft lifted an eyebrow in question. "I was doing no such thing," he stated. "I was observing the structure of the man's wings. But I will keep my distance while you are here." Sherlock nodded and entered the bathroom once again. Mycroft walked in behind him. "You all must be hungry," he said. "Come Gregory you can help me cook."

Lestrade stood and wiped the water from his hands. "Alright," he let out. He peeked down at Brian who peered back up at him. "Let's go."

Sherlock waited for the door to shut before speaking up. "We won't be here long," he said. "I just need some time to work on my next move. Before we go back to the city, we need to get everything right up," he pointed to his head, "here before I lay it out to the others."

"What are you going to ask your brothers friend?" John asked; he didn't look up either.

Sherlock could tell that the man was smiling. He could tell by the way he spoke; he sounded so amused. "Oh, Lestrade," he played dumb, "I wasn't going to ask him anything."

John stood up this time and looked him straight in the eye. "I thought I asked you to always tell me the plan," he reminded him.

Sherlock set his jaw and tried to stare the man down. "Fine," he said in a sharp tone, "I was going to ask Lestrade to make Brian here something to use to breathe water on land. It will make his life a hundred times easier. Maybe get him to help us fight."

"See, that wasn't so hard," John told him. He gave his shoulder a good pat before turning around and struck up a conversation with Brian. "Why didn't you want me to know about that?"

"I didn't think you would like the idea," Sherlock told him.

"Well he is young," John admitted, "I understand what you mean. I don't like the idea but, he's like me you know. He has all this energy inside of him and he needs something to do. But he's young, like I said; I don't want him to fight, but that's not up to me. I'm not his father."

Sherlock licked his lips and slipped over to the toilet and sat down on the lid. He watched John talk to Brian; the smile on his face was huge. He found if funny that his wings twitched when he laughed. He scanned his back; his muscles were considerably bigger than any human being's. He wasn't that heavy; he was light considering his stature and that was when he was all dead weight.

He wanted to know what the process was like when he grew them. How long it took? Was it painful? Was there blood? Did your fingers hurt when the bones grew through them? All the questions he wanted to ask but he wasn't sure if he would get the answers. He would have to wait and see though. He had a whole week of free time to ask them.

X

Sherlock was in the lab nonstop the week they stayed at Mycroft's. He set up everything he needed down in the basement; Lestrade didn't seem to mind he was too distracted with Brian and John. The older man also accepted to make the breathing apparatuses for the shark-boy. Sherlock was happy. It would make everything easier for all of them if Brian could breathe on land without getting deprived of water.

Sherlock's original plan was to use the other people at the camp but most of them were killed in the attack. The survivors they did find barely had any life left in them and would take ages to get back to full health. But if they were anything like John, then that might be a different story.

John had been a trooper through the stay. He allowed Sherlock to ask him all the questions he needed to ask. He even allowed him to take some of his blood to test. Sherlock didn't grow bored all week. He had distractions galore. Between John and the mystery that he was, and occasionally getting specimens from Brian, he was able to strategize his next move against the government.

Over the last three years he has been on the streets fighting he was able to get allies to start an official war. It's been happening for years but now something was going to be done. He knew exactly where to hit to make some damage. He needed an army and he's finally got it.

He worked over maps of England with John; the two of them thought of the best route of attack. Sherlock had to give it to the blond; he knew what he was talking about. He was silently grateful that he had John to work with. He was willing to kill, he was smarter than most men he knew, and he was strong and quick. Sherlock hadn't seen him lift anything heavier than Brian but all the muscle in his upper body had to account for something. He was the perfect person to have as a wingman.

X

One night, while in the lab, Sherlock was disrupted by Lestrade. He sidled up next to the genius; Sherlock barely spared him a glance. "What do you want Lestrade?" he asked. He switched the slide and waited for the older man to give him an answer.

He could hear Lestrade's heartbeat rise slightly as he took an intake of breath. "How are you feeling Sherlock?" he asked. He tried to look casual but Sherlock could read his worry all over his face.

"I'm feeling fine," Sherlock answered dryly. He wanted the other man to go so he could have peace and quiet.

"You don't look it," Lestrade stated. "Let me take some blood, maybe a scan of your body to see if there is something wrong with you."

Sherlock rolled his eyes; he leaned back from the scope he was looking through and rolled up his sleeve. He stuck out his arm and went back to work. "Have a field day," he said blandly.

Lestrade looked please. He took out the sterilized needle he brought and slipped it in to Sherlock's skin. When he was done he bowed slightly in thanks and went over to his own working station. Sherlock hoped that the subject wouldn't be brought back up, because in truth he wasn't feeling well. He didn't want anyone to notice, he wasn't feeling that bad, just a bit more tired than usual, and maybe sick to his stomach when he ate. He was also getting headaches but that wasn't something to worry about; he led a stressful life, headaches came hand in hand with it. He shook his head and glanced over at Lestrade; he watched as he worked quickly with his blood.

X

When they were leaving at the end of the week Lestrade slipped something in to Sherlock's pocket. "Inject this, it will make you feel better," he whispered in the younger man's ear. "Right over your heart; it will kill what is attacking you inside your body."

"What is attacking me?" Sherlock asked in hushed tones. He didn't want the other's to know what was happening. He was not going to let himself be afraid though, if he was afraid then he was weak.

He didn't do a good job of hiding it. Lestrade took on a look that instantly resembled sympathy. "It's not fatal, I'm not sure what it is, but if it hasn't killed you yet than it won't take you down," he explained. "You should have enough in that package that I put in your pocket for seven months. Just ten milligrams every day."

Sherlock nodded and dropped his hand in his pocket. His fingers curled around the small bundle. "Thank you Lestrade, you've been a lot of help," he stated. "We should be getting on our way. We have a dead line to meet."

Lestrade smiled at him. Mycroft left John to stand by the scientist's side. "Be safe Sherlock," he warned his brother. "I don't want to have to resurrect you again."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and placed his hand on John's back. "Let's go," he drawled. John followed without a word. When they were sitting in the car John smiled and chuckled a bit. Sherlock looked over at him, he couldn't help but smiling himself. "What's so funny?" he asked.

"I don't trust your brother much," John laughed.

Sherlock let out a giggle. "That's good judgment on your part, but I don't understand why it's so funny," he said.

John shifted and wiped his eyes. "It's nothing," he said. "I trust you."

Sherlock nodded. "As you should," he stated with a goof of a smile. They both burst out laughing then.

X

Sherlock slowed down as the long line of cars in front of him stopped. He lifted his head, trying to see what the holdup was. He looked at John who was leaning his head against the window lazily. Sherlock tried to think of what was wrong. He glanced at the clock then to the sky. "What day is it?" he asked.

John jumped. They haven't said anything in the last half hour they've been in the car. "Um," he hummed, "I think it's Saturday."

"Yes," Sherlock said irritably, "but what date is it?" He tapped his fingers against the steering wheel. If it was the fifteenth then he knew what was stopping them from entering the city.

John was silent for a few seconds. He had a calculating look on his face. "I think the paper said it was November 15th," he said. "Yeah, it definitely said that."

Sherlock groaned. He reached in to his back pocket and got his wallet. "Get your ID out," he ordered. John bobbed his head and obeyed. Sherlock was not planning on having to go through parade security. They were over protected, had way too many precautions for a man who wasn't even their leader. They had to get their ID's out and if the RA thought there was anything suspicious about the way you acted they had the right to take you out and search over your body and your car.

It was even worse when you lived in the city. You weren't allowed to leave your home without have it searched first. After it was checked over you were allowed to leave and praise the leader that would save them from any other form that wasn't perfect.

The leader was paranoid. Sherlock knew for a fact that he hasn't left his office in the years that he has taken over. He had decoys doing his business. No one was sure what he looked like. The genius would call him a coward right before he took him hostage and let the people's life he has destroyed come up with his punishment.

"Don't say anything when we get up there," Sherlock demanded.

"I know," John huffed.

Sherlock leaned his head against the headrest and shut his eyes. He calculated how long they would be in the line. There were at least seventeen suspicious cars out of the forty six that he could see. It would take at an average of twenty minutes to search the cars. None of them were up to anything bad so they would be set free. The man in front of him was yelling at his children who begged him to take them to the parade but now they were whining about how long the ride was. He would take up about ten minutes of threatening his children to hand him their ID cards and then snapping at the RA before apologizing and telling him the whole story. Five grueling hours it would take to get in to the city. It would be tedious no less but he would have to endure.

"We should have left earlier," Sherlock mumbled. He could already feel the boredom crawling closer. "We would have gotten through hours ago."

"So," John said, fiddling with the sleeve of his jacket.

Sherlock sighed. He knew John was eventually going to ask him the question. "What do you want to know about?" he prompted.

John got even more nervous after Sherlock said something. "What your brother said earlier," he started.

"About resurrecting me again," Sherlock helped. John nodded. "I died three years ago; Mycroft was nice enough to get me a new heart and some eyes on the side." He watched John process the information. Sherlock figured the man shouldn't be surprised by anything; he grew wings for god's sake. He rolled his eyes. "Don't be so flabbergasted, you of all people should know the leaps the world has taken in the last few years."

John barked with laughter. "Last few years? Let's try the two decades," he told him. "Jensen had the ability to change humans in to creatures like me years before I was even born."

Sherlock noted that John looked like he was in pain. As if the idea of more people like him was hurting him. Over the week at his brother's, Sherlock was able to find out a lot about John just from the way he acted and talked. He would do anything to stop Jensen's work getting out to the world. He has gone through the changing process and he would never wish that pain on anyone. He wanted to protect; deep inside was the code that made him want to protect anyone that needed protecting. He wanted to crush the government and restore balance to the nation, back to what it was before they were born. He also felt too much guilt. He felt guilty over his friend's death even if he wasn't the one who cause it. He told Sherlock, if he could go back in time and stop himself from being shipped to the camp then he would have done it in a heartbeat; even if it meant giving up his wings.

Sherlock didn't know what to think of him though. He had such an enormous sense of guilt then why did he kill a man who wasn't trying to threaten them. He was going to help them; not that Sherlock minded, it was one less RA in the world, but it was wrong. In hindsight he could see that it didn't fit in with the category that he placed John in.

John slipped his fingers through his hair. "So, I had a rough childhood; I'm guessing you didn't have such an easy ride either," he stated; an easy smile on his face.

"Well it was pretty easy," Sherlock told him. "My family had a lot of money; I'm not sure about right now though. The only problem was I couldn't see. Until the new government came into power, I was perfectly fine. When things got messy Mycroft did us a favor and erased my existence and I hid until they found me."

"The RAs right?" John inquired.

"Correct," Sherlock agreed. "A RA found me, took me to jail; I died there and my brother discovered my whereabouts me and brought me back to life. The story of my life, in a nut shell."

"That sounds fun, my parent's sent me to the camp because they didn't have enough money to support Harry and me," John explained. "That's how Jensen got his grubby little hands on me."

Sherlock hummed. He was distracted by a man being pulled out of a car four cars ahead of them. They were almost to the front and an unaccounted for suspicious car had to make things harder for them. He wasn't sure how he missed the car; maybe the RAs are cracking down more than usual. He didn't want to be pulled out of the car. He turned his head and looked at John. "Close up your jacket more, we can't take any chances," he dictated.

"You don't think they'll accept people with wings as better people?" John asked sarcastically. He tugged his jacket closer to his chest and around his knees. "I think they'll praise me."

"Or kill you," Sherlock muttered. "Either way it's not really going to change anything."

John stifled a laugh. "You'll miss me," he grinned.

"I've only known you for about two weeks," Sherlock told him seriously. "And one of those weeks we didn't see each other."

"You'll miss me," John whispered.

Sherlock huffed and started bouncing his knee. "Stupid parade day," he muttered. "I don't know why they have these things."

"So the people who like the man can come out and worship at his feet," John suggested.

"Ever heard of a rhetorical question before?" Sherlock shook his head and pulled forward; it was finally their turn.

"You didn't ask a question," John laughed.

Sherlock covered a yawn, and his growing smile, with his hand as the RA knocked on the window. He rolled down it down and took on a lazy look. "Identification," the RA said, "both of you."

Sherlock could tell that the man didn't like his job. When he joined the RA's he was hoping that he would get a cool job. He was silent as the man looked over John and his ID. The RA handed them back their cards and peered inside one last time. "Is there a problem?" Sherlock asked.

"No," the RA stated, "you may go."

Sherlock heard John let out a breath of air as he rolled forward. "They're really bad at their job," John mumbled.

Sherlock chuckled softly. "We have to find Angelo quickly, he will spread the word to everyone to meet us at the old Saints Bart's hospital," he explained. "It's been abandoned for years, the RA's given up on looking in there."

"Angelo's the big Italian right?" John asked.

Sherlock nodded. He parked the car in the makeshift parking lot the RA's had set up. "We'll most likely be able to find him at his restaurant," he expressed, "but the problem is getting there."

They hopped out of the car and started towards the crowded streets. "Do me a favor," Sherlock yelled over the roar of thousands of people, "don't look to paranoid."

John turned on him and gave him an irritated look. "I'm not paranoid," John hollered back, "I'm just surprised that there are this many people. All of them just to see one guy."

Sherlock smiled and guided John through the mass of people. "It's amazing how things work like that," he said. "People worship all kind of things, gods, actors, dictators, and they would do anything to show that they are followers. They buy shirts, necklaces, books, it's useless. No one really cares; they just don't want to die."

"Who wants to die," John stated.

Sherlock shrugged and said, "Loads of people."

X

The two decided it would be quicker to move through the alleyways. Sherlock was able to get them to the restaurant that Angelo owned in twenty minutes. They just happened to get to the street when the float carrying the "leader" passed. Sherlock held John back and waited in the shadows for everyone to pass.

The float barely passed him when something was thrown at the people on the float. Sherlock knew what it was right away and tugged John further in to the alley. "Come on," he hissed.

Screams came from the crowd and the sound of guns going off. Sherlock glanced back as saw the float going up in flames. "You were right," he said to John. "They are really bad at their jobs."

"Why are we running?" John asked. "We should go back and help fight."

"With what" Sherlock snapped, "our fists? If you didn't know they have guns." He stopped suddenly at a wall and crouched down. He pushed away a few of the bricks and crawled through the hole. Once he was in he walked over to a container and lifted the lid.

"What are we doing in here?" John asked after he struggled to get through the hole.

Sherlock glanced around. The place was supposed to be a place for a garden for the two flats on the left and right. It had two brick walls to block it off from the alleyway. The only way in was supposed to be the fire escapes on the flats. "I have weapons stashed here," he told him. "I collect them when I take down a RA. The ammunition too; now this isn't how I was hoping to start this but it looks like people got to antsy." He dug through the dirt until he reached a metal tin. "It's convenient for times like this."

"What are we going to do?" John asked.

Sherlock tried to keep himself calm and took a few deep breaths. He turned to John and handed him a gun. "Do try and keep up John," he said, "we're going to help."

John's face lit up. "Let's get going then," said he.

Sherlock put a hand on his shoulder to stop him from going further. "I know you're desperate to help but we have to do this right," he told him. "We'll attack from the roof."

John nodded and stripped off his jacket. "One express trip to the top," he replied. He wrapped his free hand around Sherlock's waist. "Hold on," he warned and started beating his wings.

Sherlock grabbed on tight to John's arm and smiled. They were on the roof to quickly for the geniuses likens. There was two RA's on there, distracted by the people revolting down below. Sherlock motioned towards the RA on the far side of the roof. John nodded and walked lightly across the roof.

Sherlock started towards the one closest to him. He had his gun raised for quick fire. He was a hairs length away when the other RA spotted him and got a shot off. Sherlock acted quick and hit the man in front with the butt of his gun. He fell forwards and off the roof. John took care of the other one swiftly and set up to fire. "Save your bullets," Sherlock exclaimed. John didn't say anything but started firing down below.

Sherlock looked down and readied himself. He was about to start shooting when he saw another RA on the roof across the street from him. He lifted his aim and shot off one bullet. The enemy flew backwards and that was the last Sherlock saw of him. He reloaded his rifle and started on the RA's on the street.

The revolutionaries had homemade weapons; some had guns they had over the years. He was surprised by how much they were advancing on a military force. His eyes scanned the street. There wasn't something right. They didn't have the power to do what they were doing. They were making the RA's retreat. Sherlock growled and aimed towards the backs of the men running away. He got a few more shots off before they disappeared around the corner.

"John!" he sneered.

John was quickly by his side. "They're retreating," he said happily. His face fell when Sherlock wasn't joining in the celebration. "What's wrong?"

"We had at least fifteen guns out there and a few whisky bombs," Sherlock stormed, "we shouldn't have been able to fight them to a point of retreat." He looked down the road the army just went down. He shook his head and thought for a minute. "They're getting reinforcements to obliterate us!"

John's eyes went wide. "I knew it was too good to be true," he cursed. The cheers of the rebels were getting louder. "How long do you think we have before they bring in more guys?"

Sherlock scanned the street once more. "Not long," he told him. "I need a ride down."

John bobbed his head and grabbed Sherlock. He quickly brought them to ground level. The people scattered in fright. The moment Sherlock's feet hit the ground he started walking towards the few that were left. "You need to get out of here," he ordered. "They're coming back with more fire power; you won't survive to see tomorrow if you stay here. Gather all that you can and make your way to Saint Bart's, you can help better if you stay there." None of them moved from their spots they were all frozen in awe at John.

"Go!" John cried, spreading his wings to their full length. The effect was supposed to intimidate the other's on the streets, it worked.

Sherlock smirked when everyone ran away from them. "I might miss you," he said as he started to walk amongst the dead. He stopped at a few bodies that he knew would have things that he needed, money, ammunition, food, anything, he would fill his pockets with the stolen things. John followed behind him but he didn't take anything; he just checked to see if they were dead. Everyone was.

Sherlock was bent over a dead rebel and his head snapped up suddenly. He heard the faint sound of a tank. They were bringing in a tank to take care of a small group of about twenty. He stood and was about to run in the opposite direction when the wind was knocked out of him. John had heard the tank also and jumped in to action.

Sherlock took a moment to gather his senses and when he was finally able to open his eyes he saw London moving quickly underneath him. His heart was going wild in his chest. He tried to look up at John but his head was against his chest and he couldn't lift it. "John!" he shouted. A shot was fired from somewhere but John rolled out of the way. Sherlock held on tight as the birdman did so. "John!" he repeated.

"What?" John asked; his voice sounded strained.

"Get us down to the ground," Sherlock ordered.

"Not yet," John told him. "They'll see where we land."

Sherlock shook his head and tried his best to look behind them. He could see the RA's working to get closer to them. He understood what John was worried about but if they needed to land before they got to Bart's so they could lose them in the alleys and make sure they weren't followed in to the building. "Do you know where Bart's is?" he asked.

"Never been to London in my life," John told him.

"It's over in that direction," Sherlock told him as he pointed in the direction of the hospital. "We'll land and split up. You have to stay in the shadows and keep quiet."

"Roger that," John said before doing a dive head first towards the cement.

A smile spread over Sherlock's face as adrenalin ran through his veins. He knew he would definitely want to fly again. They hit the ground hard and Sherlock rolled across the ground. He sat up as fast as he could and pushed John in the opposite direction. "Hurry," he called.

Sherlock started running through the grungy side streets. He had to jump over a few people sleeping on the ground. He wrapped his coat closer to his body and hid part of his face in his scarf. He had a few things jiggling around in his pockets but if the streets were as loud as they usually was no one would notice.

On his way to Bart's he was able to work out what his new plan was. Sherlock was angry that his first one was ruined by idiots who didn't know how to wait. He would yell at them a bit before calling Angelo; if he wasn't there already, and lay out what was going to happen.

X

Sherlock leaned across the table where most of the rebels were sitting. He already laid it on them; told them not to start a riot unless they had the right weapons for it, no more homemade stuff, they would get their weapons from RA's. He told them about his stash of guns. They didn't have to worry about getting caught because the two flats on either side of the small square garden were supporters of the deforms. They wouldn't rat on them.

"What are we doing here?" one girl yelled out.

That got the whole crowd going. Everyone was complaining about not being out there and fighting. They had the necessary arms; they couldn't see why they had to wait. They also weren't happy that Sherlock yelled at them.

Sherlock was growing more irritated by the second. Then some guy shouted out, "Yeah, and where is that bird fella?"

"John will be here soon," Sherlock told them sternly. "Right now, we're waiting on him and Angelo. He's bringing about twelve more people. You'll know then." He pushed himself away from the table and started pacing the floor. He heard a door open down the hall. He stuck his head out of the door. "John."

"Is there somewhere I can wash up?" John quivered. He didn't move from the shadows.

Sherlock quickly blinked twice to put on his night vision. He couldn't see anything wrong with him. "There's a bathroom," he told him, "right over here." He touched the blonds arm to escort the jumpy man to the toilet. Once in there Sherlock could see what was wrong with him. He had blood covering his upper body. His hands were shaking as he turned on the water and tried to scrub away the blood. "What happened?" Sherlock asked. He didn't know why he was asking; he already figured out what happened.

John shook his head frantically and just kept scrubbing at his arms. "Leave," he muttered. "I'll be there in a minute."

Sherlock was hesitant but he turned and left the room anyway. He wanted to know why John was so shaken up, he was a trained killer. He got back to the room and saw Angelo waiting for him to begin. The genius nodded and unfolded the map that he had in his pocket. He laid it out on the old rickety table. He pointed to spot out in the country. "Alright everyone," he started, "this is where one of the many jails they're holding deforms. It's the biggest they have, if we get in there and take it over we'll have hundreds of more people to help fight and we'll have a stock of arms."

"We could also use it as a main base," Angelo cut in.

Sherlock nodded with a smile. "Yes, that's also another reason I want to take it," he stated. "If we take it then it shows Luther that we will not be put down. Think of him as a table, if you knock down one leg then it will start to wobble. If we can take out the jails he won't know what to do."

"He won't know what hit him," someone hollered out. "Down with Luther!" Everyone joined in the chant.

Sherlock clenched his head in his hands. He couldn't deal with a group of morons. "Shut up!" he cried out. "Just everyone shut up! You're right; he won't know what hit him. Except for some people got ahead of me. He's suspicious now. He'll up security on everything. You won't be able to enter a supermarket without getting a full body search."

"Sherlock's right," Angelo said. "Whoever started the riot could have possibly ruined the whole operation. But we can work around that. Right?"

Sherlock shut his eyes and placed his hands beneath his chin. All of his ideas drifted though his mind as he brought them up one by one. He had to take everything in to account. More fire power, longer night patrols, search lights on non-stop; he knew with all those he wouldn't get enough rebels in there to make a dent. But maybe if they hit during the day. It would be a bit of a surprise, they would still have guards all over the place but they wouldn't be expecting them to show up. "I have a plan that might work," he announced after a long bout of silence. "I can't guarantee anything though."

Angelo laughed and clapped his hands. "See," he exclaimed, "I knew he would be able to do it. Now, what's the plan?"

Sherlock leaned forward and started explaining their new strategy. He had to reel back and explain things to a few of them but everything went over smooth. He didn't like the taste of the new plan though; it sat in his stomach as wrong. The raid wouldn't be until a few weeks from now when things have died down slightly; he would go over it multiple times before it got the right feel to it.

The door opened, making everyone, except Sherlock since he heard it coming, and John walked in. All eyes were on him but Sherlock could tell that he wanted all the attention to be averted back to the genius. "That's all," Sherlock stated as he stood. "We'll all meet back here in three weeks. Angelo will bring the supplies we need and I'll get us the truck to transport us. Does everyone understand?"

Everyone nodded and a few called out 'yes sir'. Sherlock scowled and stomped out of the room, John was right behind him.

X

Sherlock set up a small fire later that night. He watched John closely over the dancing flames. The birdman was acting strange ever since they met up again. Sherlock didn't know why; since he didn't know he was going to poke and prod until he did know. "You shouldn't be acting like this," Sherlock said right off the bat. "John, are you listening to me?"

John buried his head deeper in to his arms. Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You've killed people earlier today," Sherlock stated, "I saw you do it. You were fine after wards. This kill should have been no different." He would never admit it but maybe he missed something. He wasn't sure how John should have acted; he was trained to kill.

John's head snapped up; his eyes looked tired and there was a frown set in place. "You really don't understand why I can be upset over what happened earlier," he said, "when I showed up in another human being's blood."

"Why would you be?" Sherlock questioned.

John dropped his head in his hands and let out a sigh. "It's different Sherlock," he explained. "Different from the dummies I practiced on. Different from the animals that I have captured within my claws. I knew I could do what I did but I didn't believe I could. I can't believe I did."

"That makes no sense John," Sherlock told him. He watched John's face go from anger to pity. He hid his head back in his arms and went silent. There was no reason what so ever for John to be acting like a little boy killing his first deer. Why would it hurt so much? Sherlock has killed many people before with his bare hands; he didn't feel bad about it. He didn't act like John. Sherlock shook his head and leaned against the wall behind him. "John." He didn't get a response. He tried the name again but nothing.

Sherlock slowly let out a breath of air; he reached in to his pocket and grabbed the syringe Lestrade gave him. He pulled it out and unbuttoned the top few buttons on his shirt. He hovered the needle over where his heart was on his chest and pushed it in. He pushed the black liquid in to his body 'til it was gone. He pulled the syringe out and sat back. He could feel whatever what in the liquid make its way around his body. He leaned his head back against the cold brick; he was already feeling better.

Bomb threat.

**Ignore the bomb threat line. My friend wrote it and I don't have the heart to erase it. Okay, let's recap Luther is the evil man who took over and has a thing against deforms. Now you know his name. Alright, if you guys want to know something just ask me. If you think I should do a chapter in the P.O.V. of an RA then tell me; I would love to see how that goes. So if you want me to continue, or if you want me do stop writing please review. BYE! **


	5. Chapter 5

**Hey guys. I know I'm a little late getting this up but I had some technical difficulties. My computer was dead and I didn't have my charger. So, I hope you enjoy this; it's been a long wait. See ya. **

John huddled closer to the dumpster, trying to stay out of sight from anyone who passed by the mouth of the alley. It was dark, and he did his best to cover himself with his wings but he couldn't take any chances. Not with the extra RAs running around the city on the lookout for the people who were involved in the attack at the parade.

Sherlock left him about an hour earlier; he said he needed to talk with someone. John didn't ask many questions, decided it was the best not to know. He understood that Sherlock was going to need time alone and couldn't always explain himself; as long as he didn't withhold any plans from John any longer he would be fine.

John's stomach made a loud noise. He clutched it tight, it had been four days since he last ate and he wasn't sure he could make it any longer without puking up whatever was left in his gut. A small scratching sound started close to him, his eyes lit up with joy. He slowly lifted up his wing; he saw a long tail and licked his lips. His mouth was watering just thinking about the delicious meat.

He slid his talons out and leaned closer to the rat. The creature had no idea he was being hunted at the moment. The rodent was used to being close to humans, living in the city; it didn't recognize John as a threat. He saw the rat twitch and he lunged forward and captured the animal within his claws. He smiled widely and brought it to his mouth.

"You're going to eat it raw?" Sherlock's resonating voice sounded from his side.

John growled, the animalistic side of him showing just a bit. "I can eat anything you throw at me, it doesn't have to be cook or even be food," he explained. He dug his teeth in to the flesh of the rat and tore away a chunk. He chewed it for a while, savoring the first bite of a meal well deserved. He looked up at Sherlock with a pleased bloody smile. "My stomach is very strong." Bits of meat fell from his mouth and he quickly caught it. He slid the pieces back in to his mouth. Sherlock just stared at him, his mouth open slightly. The birdman chuckled. "I'm not sure if you're disgusted or intrigued."

"Why would I be disgusted?" Sherlock questioned.

John shrugged. "Even though we were all mutated some people at the base still thought it was gross for me to eat something like this," he told him. "I don't usually eat things like this, only when Jensen left me without food for days to see what would happen."

Sherlock shook his head. "No, this right here is brilliant," he gestured towards John. "If only I could get your stomach and run some tests."

"Yeah over my dead body," he laughed. He saw a twinkle of an idea in Sherlock's eye. He pointed a bloodied finger at the other man. "Don't even think of killing me in my sleep," he warned.

Sherlock held up his hands. "I wouldn't dream of it," he sang. He dropped himself next to John and rubbed his hands together. "I would start a fire, but since I don't know the pattern of the extra RA's I won't know when one might come around."

John stretched out his wing and tried to cover Sherlock the best he could. "I hope that helps," he mumbled. "I wouldn't want you to die from hypothermia."

"Now you're being irrational," Sherlock huffed.

John started to withdraw his wing as he said, "If you say so." He felt Sherlock move closer to him and he let out a laugh. "My extra appendages are very useful in cold temperatures. The feathers are thick and they keep the heat in, I don't know what I would do without them."

"You probably would be living a normal life," Sherlock stated.

John paused a moment in his barbaric eating and really thought about what life would be like if he was never sent to the camp. "You're probably right," he mumbled around a group of bones. "As far as I knew nothing was wrong with me. I had no defect; maybe a slight bit of asthma but the doctors weren't sure about it. My father probably would have pushed me to join the RAs. He wanted me to be like him, he was in the military for a while."

"Then you would be hunting me," Sherlock pointed out. "I would have killed you though."

John smothered a laugh with his hand. He was a crack shot, even if his life did go down a different path he would still be able to overpower Sherlock. He paused then in thought. He glanced over the genius. He definitely smaller than him in weight, the height could possibly be a disadvantage against him if John used his body right.

"I would win," Sherlock broke his thought process.

John looked at his face, amazed. "How in god's name did you know what I was thinking?" he questioned.

"Well," Sherlock let out, "after I said I would have killed you if you were an RA you laughed just a bit because you thought the idea was preposterous. Then you started thinking about your skills now and how they wouldn't be much different if you were you were sent off to the military instead of Jensen. You then proceeded to look at me and tried to gauge my size. You figured with my stature you could easily take me. Am I wrong?"

"You followed my thoughts precisely," John said in awe. He licked the blood off his fingers, enjoying the taste a bit too much. "I don't understand how you do it."

"That's because you fail to observe," Sherlock told him. "So many people take advantage of their sight. They just look, only seeing things on the surface; I take the time to go deeper, to see what really is being shown."

John nodded. He felt fatigue drown out all his other senses. He knew that if he slept something could happen and he could be dead so he tried to sleep as little as possible. He also felt the need to keep an eye on Sherlock. He wasn't going to lose another person because he was selfish. His hand shot for the dog tags handing around his wrist.

It felt weird without Jim in his life. He wanted to go back to the site of the bases and retrieve what was left of his friend. He wanted to give everyone there a proper burial; although he knew he couldn't go near there in case the enemy was watching the site.

"I knew this girl," Sherlock started, bringing John from his thoughts, "her name was Molly. She knew a boy named James Moriarty."

John lifted his head a little. "I bet it's the same Jim," he stated.

"I wouldn't doubt it," Sherlock told him. "She said he left when he was very young."

"What happened to Molly?" John inquired.

John heard the intake of breath Sherlock made. "She was born with an extra finger," he explained. "She was brought to a jail and executed. I was her cell mate."

John got a mischievous smile on his face. He was going to lighten the mood a little. "Did you like her?" he asked.

"What are you, twelve?" Sherlock asked. "I did not like her, I don't let emotions like that cloud my mind. Plus, how could romance form in a place like that. People were being killed every day, you had no clue if you're name was going to be called next, it was horrendous. I hope someone isn't looking for a relationship with those conditions."

John shrugged; he drew circles on the ground with his finger. "I guess you're right," he concluded. "It's just people got together in the camp. I know it is different situations but you never know where you'll find love."

"Why the sudden thought of love John?" Sherlock questioned.

John shook his wings. "I don't know," he told him, "I was just wondering. You know, I thought I should get to know you better, so I know what it might to be out with you in the field."

"And asking questions about my non-existing love life will help you with that, how?" Sherlock asked.

John rolled his eyes. "Fine, since you don't have one it will never be on my list of conversation topics with you," he said. "Also you don't have to worry about it much; I never had much of a love life either. I…" John was cut off by Sherlock's hand covering his mouth. His eyes darted around but his wings were stopping him from seeing anything. He could hear voices at the mouth of the alley.

"RAs," Sherlock whispered close to John's ear.

John nodded his head and pealed Sherlock's hand away from his mouth. "Do you think they see us?" he asked. Sherlock shook his head. He licked his lips and shut his eyes so he could hear the conversation.

"Sargent Waters want's you on Main Street," a definite female voice said.

"Why?" the other voice, male, questioned. "My orders were to take on this street."

John could hear the woman mumbled something incoherent before saying, "And my orders are to get you to that street. Anderson will be taking over here."

John was pulled back more. He was surprised by the sudden movement but managed to keep a sound from escaping his mouth. He glanced quickly over at Sherlock who held a finger to his lips. "I'm going to take a look," Sherlock whispered. He spread John's wings and leaned out to look on the other side of the dumpster.

John was thankful that it was dark and the street lamps light didn't reach as far as their hiding spot or he was sure that Sherlock would have been seen. His heart was hammering in his ears as he watched Sherlock crawl further out for a better look. John had a hand gun on him for protection; he could only imagine what the Ra's had on them.

John attached his fingers to the hem of Sherlock's jacket. He wasn't sure why but it calmed him down. A moment later Sherlock was back at his side. "What did you see?" he questioned.

"Only two people," Sherlock recapped, "they left just now. I can't see the new RA. We should be fine here; they already checked this alley earlier today."

John nodded and let out a sigh. He was relieved to know the others were gone. His legs felt cramped so he stretched them out in front of him. The cold night air nipped at them under his thin pants. He was lucky he had on boots or his feet would be frozen also. "I can't wait to attack again," he admitted. "I just want to get it over with you know. I don't want to feel excited like this but it's hard not to." He pulled his legs back up to his chest. "I can't explain it well."

Sherlock settled himself next to John again, a little closer than before. "If you need to sleep John you can," he stated. "We have the hand gun. If anyone comes you'll be the second person to know."

John tried to hide his yawn but failed. "I can't sleep," he told him. "I'll be sluggish if we have to move camp."

"No you won't," Sherlock told him. "It will be fine. Just sleep and in the morning I'll wake you up, sooner if I have to."

John stretched his wings out, making sure they weren't going stiff. He wrapped them around himself and Sherlock again. He knew if he was going to sleep he was going to keep contact with Sherlock. He felt sleep fall heavy on his shoulders, much more than before and was gracious that Sherlock was allowing him to. "Good night," he mumbled to the genius and shut his eyes.

X

John was following behind Sherlock along the full streets of London. His face was buried deep in a scarf Sherlock nicked from a shop for him. John didn't want to accept it but Sherlock forced it in to his hands, saying that he was paler. The birdman didn't resist after that, he thanked the man and wrapped it around his neck.

He did have to admit, it was warmer with the wool covering his exposed skin. He was through with the winter wind getting down in his jacket and spreading along his upper torso.

The people around him didn't take notice to the two men walking down the street, one with piercing eyes that could see anything, and the other shorter man who was large and a little lumpy. John found it comical, the way they sort of fit together in the strange world. Lumpy and The Eyeball could be their nicknames, they could save the world. He started laughing quietly.

"What are you laughing at?" Sherlock asked over his shoulder.

John had a large smile on his face. "Nothing, just a funny thought popped into my head," he told him. He shut his eyes briefly as he trailed behind and pictured Sherlock and him as comic book heroes with funny costumes. Storing the thought for later he opened his eyes. "What are we doing today anyway?" he questioned. "We've been walking around for hours."

Sherlock grabbed John's arm and pulled him in an alley. "I'm trying to trace the patterns of the RAs," he explained, "You're following me around because I can't leave you alone to wander around the city in the day because you don't know the proper way to speak to RAs."

"Why would anyone want to speak properly to them?" John asked.

"It's a rule," Sherlock told him. "I'm not a stickler for rules but if you break these ones you could be thrown in to jail, and I'm not fond of being in one of those again."

John scrunched up his face. "Well, teach me the proper way and I can wander around alone," he told him. "I'm a big boy; I can take care of myself."

"It takes a while to learn them," Sherlock stated, "there are a lot of rules. Hopefully we won't need them much longer. Soon John, London will be a battlefield."

John couldn't help the smile that formed on his face. "Here, here," he laughed. He looked out on to the street. He could picture what it would be like. Their own army would be holding back the RAs. The rebels against the country. It was going to be an experience no one would forget. No one in the world would forget that England was on the brink of being taken over and that the people rose up and fought back. It made him happy to know that he was going to be part of it all. "Could we really do it Sherlock? I mean, think about it."

"I have John," Sherlock told him. He landed his hands on John's shoulders and squeezed them. "I have thought about it the moment I got my sight back, the moment I was brought back to life after they drove me to death. I know that we can liberate England from Luther. He's nothing but a cowardly man."

John placed his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. All the excitement dancing around in his eyes made John's heart beat faster. "Sherlock Holmes," he whispered, "I hope you're right."

"No need for hope," Sherlock told him with a push out on to the sidewalk, "not when we have logic on our side."

John laughed and let Sherlock take the lead again. He walked with his head help a little higher than before. He would take off in flight if he knew he wasn't going to be shot. A smile over took his face and pulled the green scarf a little tighter.

X

John was drumming his fingers against the ground. He was afraid, excited, and tired all at the same time. He wanted to sleep but he couldn't, knowing that when he woke up he would be taking charge in an attack against 'The King'. He licked his lips and dropped his head back on the brick wall. He shut his eyes as he tried to keep his breathing under control. He was having his first fight jitters.

"Calm down John," Sherlock's voice broke through to John.

John rolled his head on his shoulders. "I need to do something," he mumbled. "I want to do something. Let's go do something." He opened his eyes and stared at the genius who was sitting across from him. He could see his eyes shining grey in the dark.

"You're an interesting man John Watson," Sherlock said slowly. He tilted his head to the side. "You could possibly die tomorrow."

"So could you," John pointed out. "But I think that's why you're bringing me along for the ride. If you get hit you'll have a doctor by your side."

"You should be afraid," Sherlock told him.

"I read once," John started, "that every good soldier should be afraid. I think it's a good rule to live by. But you get to choose what to be afraid of. I'm not afraid of dying. No, I have faced death. I have looked it in the eyes and it turned away. I'm afraid that we'll fail, and never get another chance. That the disease that is taking over England would soon spread around the world and everyone would be blindsided like we were."

Sherlock shook his head. "I'm not afraid," he told him.

"That's because you keep yourself free from emotion," John responded. "And that's why you have me. I let myself feel fear because I know it will help me in the end." He saw Sherlock smirk. He grabbed a few pebbles off the ground and started throwing them against the wall opposite him. "You don't keep yourself from emotions," he told him after a beat.

"I do my best," Sherlock spoke.

"Of course you do," John laughed. He took a few more steps before hitting the wall and turning around. "What is it like dying?"

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders. "For me it was a relief." he answered. "My heart stopped, and I fell to the ground. I wasn't willing to fight it like you."

John shut his eyes and leaned back against the wall again. "How old were you?" he questioned.

"Why the questions John?" Sherlock inquired.

"They're helping me calm down," John told him. "How old were you?" he repeated.

"Seventeen," Sherlock replied.

John tried to picture a seventeen year old Sherlock. "What happened while you were in the jail?" he asked. He wanted a picture painted in his head. Something he could remember something that drove him even more than just making England free again.

Sherlock took a slow breath in. "I was chained to the wall naked most of the day," he explained. "We were all given jobs to do. My job was to move bricks from one side of the yard to the other. 123 steps it took me, there and then 123 back. I did that until I dropped dead."

John watched in his head as a younger version of Sherlock marched back and forth with a pile of bricks. He looked tired, and sick. "I promise," he whispered. He was going to stop what was happening.

"Go to sleep," Sherlock dictated. "You'll need your rest for tomorrow."

John shook his head. "You do too," he mumbled. "Oh wait, that's another thing you don't do. Are you even human? You don't eat, you don't sleep, and you don't have emotions."

Sherlock blinked at him. "Just because I don't do those things as often as others doesn't mean I'm not human" he pointed out. "You're not fully human and you do all those things,"

"What was the last time you actually slept?" John asked. He wasn't going to give up.

"Four days ago," Sherlock answered. "I don't need to sleep though. Go to sleep, you'll stop feeling anxious, and tomorrow will come before you know."

John stood up from grimy floor and paced to the other side. Once he reached the wall he turned on his heel and repeated his actions. He was going to force exhaustion on himself.

He shut his eyes and tried to picture a calming place. He started with a beach with the wind lightly blowing and the clear ocean water going on forever. It didn't help. He needed somewhere real somewhere he's been before so he went on to his room at his parents' home. He saw his empty dark blue walls, his perfectly made bed with The Incredible Hulk on them. An overwhelming feeling that someone was going to get him took over his mind so he shook his head, erasing the image all together. He ran his hands through his hair and started on a different place. He discarded any place at the camp, there was nothing calming there. He went back a few weeks, where he was still healing from his escape. 221 B Baker Street. It may have been a little boring while he was there but it was the only place he felt truly safe for a long period of time. He could see the room he was holed up in for days. He could almost hear Mrs. Hudson moving around below him.

He finally stopped pacing back and forth. He opened his heavy eyelids and walked back to Sherlock, whose eyes were watching him closely. He dropped like a sack of potatoes back to the ground. A small smile was forming on his face as his eyes slid shut. As he drifted off to sleep he was back in the room at 221 B Baker Street.

X

It was five in the morning. London was waking up, the curfew was over. People that needed to get to work were venturing out of their homes. John was up, had been for two hours already. He was standing beside Sherlock in a room full of people. His eyes were shining as he saw all the faces of the people who were going to help.

"We have a few more hours 'til daylight," Sherlock started, "we'll use the dark for our advantage. We'll get there just at the right time for the night shift guards to feel tired and the dayshift guards to still feel a bit groggy."

John shook his head. It was amazing how the RA's ran things. The way Sherlock was explaining their mission one more time it was almost as if they were running around like chickens with their heads cut off. "What if they're ready for us?" John stepped up with his question. "You've seen what they've done with security around here, what about there? What if they upped their security there and it's guarded better than Fort Knox?"

"They won't know that we're coming," Sherlock answered. "It's highly improbable that they would. I made sure though, that I kept that in mind when I was forming the plan. Angelo, the map?" The Italian man pulled a piece of paper from his sleeve and unfolded it on the table.

John examined, it was a layout of a building. Judging by the amount of rooms and the situation they were in he knew it was the jail. He saw 'X's all over the paper and a 'W' in the corner of the building.

"On any given day there will just be the four guards, one in each guard tower," Sherlock explained. He pointed to the line connecting the four squares. "If there are more guards I estimate at least four more guards patrolling the fences. Our scouts will radio back to us the numbers. If there are more guards than I want team one to advance on all four sides and wait for the guards patrolling the ground, while team two go to the four corners and wait for the call. When the call comes, team two will continue on with the plan as you were told. Team one," he said, his eyes darting to a tall man, "when a guard is in front of you I want you to shoot them."

John listened as Sherlock explained. He waited 'til they were all going their separate ways before he asked Sherlock another question. "What team are we in?" he asked. He couldn't remember what was said about them.

Sherlock turned to him for a moment. "We're not on any team," he told him. "You'll be flying us in over the fence. We'll land on the roof and then go in through the stairwell there. I want to try to take out the warden."

"Why don't I fly everyone over?" John questioned. Then he thought about it. It was another stupid question that shouldn't be asked. "Never mind, I understand."

"See, now you're getting the hang of it," Sherlock told him with a smirk.

John let out some air and shook his head. He pushed lightly on Sherlock's shoulder and walked past him. "How did you get the weapons for over sixty men?" he asked. "You couldn't have killed that many RAs."

"I have my ways of getting what I need," Sherlock told him.

"You have enough weaponry to supply a whole army," John stated.

"Exactly," Sherlock fixed him with a pointed look. "I haven't been idle for the last three years. I've been anticipating this day for a long time."

John let a sigh escape his lips. He looked in the back, their gear was covered up. He knew they had a few machine guns, a couple of hand grenades and a few hand guns. He still didn't know how Sherlock got them but he wasn't going to complain. They were going to need everything they got to succeed on this mission.

X

John waited with bated breath for the scouts' report back. He was leaning against the car, his hands clutching the weapon he was given. His headset was over his ears so the moment one of the scouts said a word about how many people were patrolling he would hear it and instruct the teams on what to do.

The sky was getting lighter by the minute. John was starting to worry that they would lose the cover of the night. He lifted himself from the vehicle and ventured over to Sherlock who was watching the jail from the edge of the small woods. "We need to hurry," he whispered close to Sherlock. "I say when we know how many there are I fly us over. If we don't we'll lose our cover."

"You're right," Sherlock replied. "Make sure Angelo has his headset on and tell him to move the forces. We'll go now."

John nodded and ran back to Angelo. "Keep your headset on," he ordered. "Sherlock and I are going in now." Angelo nodded and turned to the men around them. John turned and walked into Sherlock. "What's wrong?"

Sherlock pushed him lightly to the side and continued to the back of the car. John watched him as he pulled something out of the back. He stalked over to John and handed him a harness. "Put this on," he demanded. He was putting one on himself.

John looked at the thing. It looked as if it when over his chest and hips. He fit his legs in the bottom part and struggled to it over his shoulders. He was lucky that it didn't have to go across his wings. "What is this?" he asked stepping up to Sherlock who was wearing the same thing.

"Hand me your clips," Sherlock told him. "It's going to make flying easier for the both of us."

John handed him the clips. He was tugged forward and stopped himself from knocking over Sherlock. "It's just a rough version but it will do now," Sherlock admitted. He picked up John's gun along with his own. "Let's go."

John shook his head. 'Now or never,' he said to himself. He grabbed a hold of Sherlock and launched in to the air. Once he leveled out Sherlock told him to let him go. The birdman hesitated before moving his hands away from him. He dropped about six inches more inches but was secured to John by the harnesses. "This is mental," John muttered.

"I count eight men outside," Sherlock told him.

"Why do we need scouts if we could just do this?" John questioned.

"You could call it an experiment," Sherlock said. "Okay, we're going to land over there."

John steered them to the spot Sherlock was pointing to. He had to admit, it was so much easier to fly without having to hold onto Sherlock. The glided in silently and landed on the roof with a light thud. "Okay, where's this door you were speaking of earlier?" he questioned.

Sherlock unclipped himself and started off. "We're in," Angelo's voice came over John's headset.

"Roger that," John said and jogged up to Sherlock who was working at a locked door. "They're past the fence and working their way to main building."

"Perfect," Sherlock mumbled.

John watched him closely as he picked the lock. He cradled his gun in his arms as he waited. Sherlock was done in seconds and pushed opened the door. John smiled as he moved forward behind Sherlock. His heart was pounding in his ears and he descended the steps one at a time. They reached a door.

He peered around Sherlock's shoulder and could see through the small window. The hall seemed to be empty but there were doors all along the walls. He pulled on Sherlock's sleeve. "Let me go first," he whispered. He opened the door slowly.

"All teams in the building," Angelo announced.

John sucked his lip in through his teeth and held it there. It was quiet. He couldn't hear anything. He signaled Sherlock to stop as he reached the first door. He slid against the wall and slowly looked inside. It was a break room of sorts but it was empty. "Sherlock," he murmured, "why is it so quiet?"

"Keep moving," Sherlock answered.

John growled lightly in his throat and moved forward. There were five floors to the jail. Sherlock told him the prisoners were kept on floor two-four and the first floor held rooms for guards and the top floor had offices. He took a step forward and heard something.

Sherlock must have heard it too because his gun was raised. John turned on the spot just in time to see a group of men burst through the emergency stairwell. He was able to get a few rounds off, hitting the first few men before jumping in to the room they were about to check. "I knew something like this was going to happen," he hissed.

"Don't worry, I got it under control," Sherlock replied.

John flipped over the desk and pulled Sherlock behind with him. They had a good advantage point, only a few men could go through one door at a time. He lifted his head and shot one man who tried for the door. "It looks like you have in under control."

He could hear gunshots from other parts of the jail. He knew the other men were having their own trouble. "Throw a grenade," Sherlock commanded.

John touched the belt of grenades on his chest. "No," he told him. "If I throw one then we can be blown to smithereens, along with the a few prisoners."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and grabbed one. "Not if you throw it right," he mumbled. He pulled the pin and tossed it out of the room.

John heard a few people yell, they couldn't get away fast enough. An explosion went off causing John to duck his head. When it was silent again he lifted his head and saw a gaping hole in the corner of the room. He could see the bodies of the guards lying there motionless. "Let's go help the others," he said standing up fully. A bullet whizzed past his head just as Sherlock pulled him down.

"They're not that stupid," Sherlock mumbled to him.

"Yes but you are," John almost yelled. "I told you not to throw that grenade." He rolled his eyes and lifted barely above the desk. Bullets started flying at him but none seemed to be hitting the target thankfully. He shot a few before dropping back down and reloading. "You can help you know."

"Push the desk forward," Sherlock told him.

John did as he was told and pushed the desk forward as far as he could. As he did so the guards were shooting at them. John shot blindly over the edge and was hoping he would get someone.

"Stop," Sherlock said. He stood slightly and shot off a few rounds before getting back under cover.

The guards weren't letting them get a chance to get any shots. "What now?" John questioned.

"How many are out there?" Sherlock asked.

John got low and looked around the side of the desk. A bullet hit the corner causing shards of wood to fly off. A few imbedded themselves in right side of John's face. He hissed in pain. He pulled back behind the desk. He pulled at a larger piece that was sticking out beneath his eye. He looked at it and threw it to the side. "I counted seven," he said through clenched teeth.

"On the count of three you run to the left and I'll run to the right. We should be able to take care of them on our own," he said. John nodded. "One…two…three."

John ran out to his left, finger on the trigger going a mile a minute. He killed three men, the bullets getting them in the head, and wounded another, a bullet through the knee and shoulder. He saw the other four men fall to the ground dead.

It was eerily quiet. John's heavy breathy was the only thing that broke the silence. He glanced over at Sherlock, who was still behind the desk. "You didn't move," he pointed out.

Sherlock stood up, changed the clip in his gun, and smiled at him. "Excellent deduction," he said a hint of sarcasm in his voice. "You were a wonderful distraction by the way."

John wanted to throttle the man but the sound of more gunfire brought him back to the situation. "We have to help the others," he grunted. He jogged down the empty side of the hallway. He ran as fast as he could down the stairs. He reached the floor where he saw a few men still fighting.

There weren't many left though. Bodies covered the floor, both uniformed and un-uniformed. John came up behind a guard and whacked him over the head with the butt of his gun. The man fell to the floor unconscious. Sherlock was by his side, firing every now and then when a guard showed up. He couldn't see any of their guys there anymore.

"Angelo you good," John asked over the radio.

"We're all clear where we are," Angelo told him. "We searched all the rooms; there are no more guards to be found."

John relayed the message to Sherlock. "Okay," he said in to the headset. "Gather up the wounded on both sides. Take away the guards weapons. Send a few up to the fifth floor; we got a few up there."

"Of course," Angelo agreed.

John ran a hand through his hair. He walked around. He knew he wasn't going to see any more guards. The other teams already took care of that. He looked through the windows of the cell doors. He could see naked men and women looking back at him with scared tired eyes. He couldn't help himself as he imagined them as Sherlock looking back at him. "Sherlock, can we get these doors open?" he called over his shoulder.

"We have to go to the warden's office for that," Sherlock told him. "Come on."

John followed him back up the stairs. "Do you think the warden will be in?" he asked. "Or do you think he was out there fighting and is already dead?"

"I think he's waiting for us," Sherlock told him. They reached the top floor and were at the last door in the hall. He turned the knob slowly; John was ready to kill himself for being so dramatic, and pushed open the door.

John flew into the room with his gun aimed in front of him. He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw the man sitting behind his desk. He squeezed his hands tighter on the rifle in his hand and tried to keep himself from yelling.

"Hello warden," Sherlock said casually. "We're here to take over you jail."

The warden's eyes darted over to Sherlock. "I see that," he said with a smile. "You must be Sherlock Holmes, I heard a lot about you."

"You should know quite a lot about me," Sherlock strolled closer to the desk. "I was a prisoner of yours."

John stepped forward, readjusting his gun. "What are you doing here?" he asked. He could feel Sherlock's eyes on him but he ignored them. "How could you be here?"

"Your guardian angel here doesn't seem to understand that I run this place," the warden said.

John shot a bullet above the man's head. "I have a name," he growled. "You can call me John Watson."

Realization seemed to hit the man hard. "John," the man's voice was barely above a whisper. He stood slowly. "You've grown so much."

"I would sit down Mr. Watson," Sherlock said. "He's your enemy now."

"I am not my son's enemy," Kenneth Watson told the genius.

John shook his head. "I can't believe you joined," he told him. It hurt more than John thought it would. He knew his dad would force him to join but that was different. That was a different life, it wasn't real. He shut his eyes quickly to stop the headache from starting. "Release the deforms."

Ken sat back down. "I thought you were dead," he announced. "I thought I lost my only boy. Even under these circumstances I'm happy to see you."

"Sir, if you could be quiet and do as you're told," John stated. He wasn't going to let the one man ruin what they came for. "Slowly, I don't want you trying anything." He glanced over at Sherlock. He was standing there looking as if nothing could faze him.

"There," Ken said. "I did as I was told. Are you going to shoot me now?"

"No," Sherlock cut in. "We're going to take you hostage like the others. John won't let me kill you." He stepped forward and lifted the older man out of his chair.

Ken's eyes shot to Sherlock before settling on John again. "Your mother died five years ago," he told him. "She was hit by a car coming home with the shopping."

John grimaced. "How did you know we were coming?" he asked. "Who told you?"

"A little spider wrote it in a web," Ken told him.

John went up to him and grabbed the other side as Sherlock gripped the other. "You're a coward," he hissed in his father's ear. "You hide in here and wait for your men to die."

"Actually," Sherlock started, "he was ordered to wait in here. Weren't you Mr. Watson?"

Ken ignored him. "Listen," he whispered to John, "I only joined up because I couldn't survive on my own. I thought you were dead, and your mother was killed, Harry went off the deep end and I have no idea what happened to her. You have to believe me when I say I have nothing against you people."

John let go of his father's side, lifted up his rifle and hit him upside the head. "Let's get him with the others," he said catching him before Sherlock dropped him.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock asked.

John looked up at him with a confused look. "Of course I'm alright," he told him. "I'm better than alright. Why wouldn't I be alright?"

"Well," Sherlock drawled, "you did just meet your father after eight years and found out that he was trying to kill people like us. Also, you just knocked him unconscious."

John weighed the words in his head. A grin was sliding on to his face. "I did," he laughed, "didn't I?"

Sherlock couldn't contain his laughter as well. "In my opinion he deserved it," he told him.

"You're right. I didn't like him much anyway" John admitted. He tried to hold his laughter in as they made their way over the mass of cheering people. He couldn't believe the sight before his eyes. He smiled as he watched the prisoners shaking hands and hugging every one of their fighters. Most of them were clothed with jackets and other various garments. "I want anyone with medical knowledge with me. We have some people to patch up!" he yelled over the roar. He fixed his headset back on his head and spoke in to it, "Angelo, get every injured man downstairs and in to the guard mess hall."

"Everyone is already there," Angelo reported.

"Good man," John said, "I'm heading there now. Find anyone with medical experience and send them down there. I'm going to need all the help I can get." He looked over at Sherlock who was watching the throng of people with his critical eyes. He wasn't sure what was going on in his head, maybe distant memories of being here himself, or if he was happy to see them free. He decided it would be best not to know. He understood that Sherlock was a peculiar man, he didn't understand much about how people normally feel, and he didn't act like other people he has ever met. Even Jim, who was a little off at times was better at showing emotion than Sherlock.

John didn't care about what Sherlock said or the lack of emotions he shown, he already knew that he was a great man. He put his life on the line to save hundreds of people's lives, and he was willing to do it again. "Sherlock," he bellowed, "come help me will ya?"

Sherlock tore his gaze away from the free prisoners. He didn't say anything; John didn't think he had too, as he walked over to him.

John felt better with him by his side. Even if the past few weeks spending hours with him alone, annoying him, and making him fret like a mother because he refused to eat or sleep, he liked the man. So far he had a lot to thank him for.

"You're not going to help are you?" he asked as they made their way to the mess hall.

"Of course not," Sherlock told him with a smirk. John chuckled quietly. "I might help get those splinters out of your face though."

John forgot about his injury. It wasn't bad in any sense of the word but now that he was reminded the dull pain came back. "You're responsible for them," he pointed out, "so it should be your responsibility to get them out."

Sherlock laughed. "Are you sure you're alright?" he repeated his question from earlier.

"Yeah," John said, "I'm perfectly fine." They were silent for a beat. "Who do you think tipped off them?"

Sherlock shook his head. "I haven't the slightest," he answered honestly.

John nodded. He guessed it was a questioned that would have to be answered another day.

**So, is it bad? I don't like it much. Well, tell me what you think of it. I promise next chapter will have the point of view of an RA. It might be awhile, I'm not telling you it will be but don't be surprised if I don't get it out for another month or something. Well, drop me a review, I'll love them. BYE!**


	6. Chapter 6

**Hey, I know this is really late but it was so hard to write. I'm sorry. It's not even that good. Also there's going to be a suicide at the end. So be careful with that. I'm going to apologize beforehand; I think this is just my worse chapter. So I hope you enjoy it a bit. See ya. **

Oliver Banks spent half of his life on the sea. He was raised on his father's boat. The only contact he had with people other than his mother Sally and his father Hugo were when they had to get more supplies. He had never been home England after he was born, but his parent's told him it was great. Whenever they were going to a new port Sally would tell Oliver all about the country they were going in. It was his way of learning history.

He always prided himself that he knew more about any country in the world than anyone, well besides his parents. He learned other things to, like how to count, and add and subtract. It was easy for him, he had to count how many supplies they had and had to figure out how much they would use in a week and whenever they were in port Oliver had to figure out the cost for everything and his mother also made him figure out how much more or less it cost than the last port. For science he learned mostly about the ocean and the environment. Leaning the anatomy of a fish was easier when you watch someone skin a fish several times a week.

Other than that Oliver spent most of his time on the boat. After doing his chores he went to his bunk and played card games. That's all he did for fun. He knew tons of card games to play by himself. He always had a deck of cards with him. It was a great way to pass the time. Sally had expressed many time that they should stop sailing for a while and let Oliver spend some time in England to get some friends. She hated seeing him so lonely.

Hugo didn't agree told Sally many times that Oliver was fine. He had friends all over the place, he didn't need anymore. After many years of persisting that they allow Oliver to go to a school like a normal kid Hugo gave in. He decided to allow Sally and Oliver spend a year in England and if Oliver didn't like it there they had to leave again. So that's what they did, Hugo left the two in England and went off sailing on his own.

X

Oliver loved going to school. He met so many new people and got so many news friends that he could see every day. When they first landed though, and were getting a flat to live in Sally and Oliver had to get checked up by a doctor first. It was strange; Sally said it must have been because they were gone for so long. Oliver didn't care though. He was in a new place.

To Sally, England was a different place than it was ten years before. She noticed with a new king came a new way of life. He enforced laws that she didn't know people were able to enforce. She started to wonder if it was a good idea to leave the sea.

Oliver was ten years old and on his first day of school he was taught by the other kids very quickly who to like and who not to like. He was told that anyone with a deformity or a disability were to be shunned. One kid, Kenny, even told him that soon they were going to be taken care of like the swine they were, or at least that's what Kenny's dad told him.

In school Oliver was taught about the laws, and were told they had to follow them. After another law was passed a few of the teachers and kids at school left. Oliver was happy, at least he would get the deform disease from them.

X

A few months after beginning school Oliver became best friends with Dustin. Dustin was a bit funny but at least he wasn't a deform. His mother never allowed him to go over anyone else house or let anyone go over theirs. Oliver didn't mind though, he was fine spending time with him at school.

One day, Oliver was playing outside with Dustin and was climbing a tree in the park, the one place Dustin was allowed to go without his mum. Dustin was sitting below the tree watching him. "Dustin, come up here," Oliver called bellow.

Dustin shook his head. "Mummy doesn't want me to climb trees," he told him.

Oliver frowned and climbed to the ground. "Why not?" he asked as he jumped from the last branch.

"I'm not allowed to tell people," Dustin told him.

"But I'm your best friend," Oliver whined. "Tell me!"

Dustin nodded and looked up at the tree. "She says I have smaller lungs than someone should my age, so it's hard for me to breathe when I do activities," he explained.

Oliver's eyes widened. His best friend was different from everyone else. He had a deformity. But he seemed so normal. It was wrong. Everything felt wrong. He gritted his teeth and clenched his fists. His best friend lied to him. Oliver ran forward and tackled Dustin to the ground.

"What are you doing?" Dustin asked as he tried to push Oliver off of him.

Oliver couldn't hear him. The ten year old was angry and confused. What if he had the disease now? He liked Dustin so much why was he wrong. He hit him in the face again and again.

Dustin yelled and started hitting Oliver back, doing his best to fight him off. Sally, who was watching the boys, ran over and pulled Oliver off of the other boy. "What are you doing?" she asked, holding her struggling son.

"He hit me," Oliver yelled. "He hit me. The pig hit me!"

Dustin started crying and curled up into a ball. "Why did he hit you?" Sally asked. "And don't call him a pig; he's a little boy just like you."

Two RA's ran over to figure out what the problem was. "Ma'am, what's wrong?" one man asked her.

"He's a deform," Oliver cried pointing at Dustin's small form. "His lungs are smaller than everyone else's. He told me himself."

The other RA bent down and glared at Dustin. "Alright, we'll take him in," he assured Oliver. The RA pulled on gloves and picked Dustin up off the ground. "We'll call his parents."

"What are you going to do to him?" Sally asked quickly.

"We're just going to take him in and have his parents come pick him up, there's no reason to worry," the RA told him. He looked at Oliver and gave him a smile. "You did good young man, hopefully one day we'll have you wearing this uniform."

Sally forced a smile on his face, as Oliver beamed at him. "Don't worry Dustin, you'll be fine," she assured him. She watched him be taken away before taking Oliver home again.

X

The year was up. Oliver loved it in England; he was popular and was seen as a hero but Sally didn't think it would be right for him to grow up like that. When they met Hugo at the docks Sally took all of their things and put them on the boat. Hugo simply raised an eyebrow at her and went straight to Oliver. "So? You didn't like it?"

Oliver shook his head. "I want to be a Reichenbach Agent," he told him. "They're cool, and they have cool uniforms, and they keep the world clean."

Hugo laughed. "I thought you were going to say cool again," he joked. "What's a Reichenbach Agent?"

"You don't want to know," Sally said coming back up. She shook her head angrily. "We should have never come back. It's different Hugo."

"I helped put a deform away," Oliver said proudly.

"A deform?" Hugo asked looking back at Sally.

Sally pointed at her son. "That's not something to be proud of. He was your friend," she growled. "Just take him in. I want him out of here as fast as we can."

Hugo nodded and brought Oliver down into the boat. "Will you explain what's going on?" he asked the young boy.

"There's these new laws that the new king made and the deforms will give you evil disease that will turn you sick and I helped to put Dustin, who has smaller lungs than everyone else, into his place. The RA's said they were just taking him back to his parents but I heard that he's going to jail. All deforms that commit offences go to jail. He hit me. That's an offence. One of my other friends said they'll be taking them away soon no matter what," Oliver explained quickly. He was bouncing in Hugo's arms with excitement.

Hugo nodded and swallowed. "What makes you a deform?" he asked.

"Tons of things," Oliver said. "Multiple toes, a shorter leg, brain problems. There was this girl in my class that had one toe removed, but she moved, made the rest of us happy."

Hugo frowned. "That doesn't sound very nice," he said. "They did nothing to you, why should so many laws be made against them?"

"Because they're filthy rotten pigs," Oliver yelled.

Hugo clamped a hand over his mouth. "I never want to hear you say anything like again," he ordered. "Do you understand me?"

"Why? Do you support the pigs?" Oliver asked. He wiggled from his dads arms. "Anyone that supports them, are just as disgusting as they are."

Hugo grabbed a hold of his arm and spanked him. "I want you to go to your bunk and stay there for the rest of the day," he told him. "If I hear you speak like that ever again you'll be in trouble for longer." Oliver's eyes welled up with tears and he ran to his bunk. Hugo ground his teeth together and he turned around going off to find Sally.

X

Later that night when Oliver was asleep Hugo and Sally were sitting around. Hugo rubbed his face and he shook his head. "He's eleven, where is he hearing these things?" he asked.

"Kids at school, who heard it from their parents," Sally sighed. "It was horrible Hu; I wanted him out of there the moment I learned about everything. I thought something was going to happen. I thought people were going to stop this. It's going to get worse. I say we just stay on the boat. He'll eventually forget about it."

Hugo nodded and took a sip of his wine. "I hope so, if he finds out god knows what he'll say," he mumbled.

"He won't find out," Sally told him. "It's ancient, no one knows about it."

"The way he was talking, I suddenly felt like I was beneath him. My own son!" Hugo yelled and hit his hand against the table.

Sally took his hand and kissed it. "Shh, he's sleeping, you don't want to wake him up," she said. "If he hears us talking he'll hate us forever."

Hugo looked down at his arms and sighed. "We just won't talk about it anymore," he mumbled. "I can't believe this is a problem."

"You would think he would be alright with difference," Sally laughed. "So many different places, so many different people, he can't handle this."

"Do you think he would understand if I told him that one is shorter than the other? I mean, would it change his mind?" Hugo asked. "God, I didn't even think I would have to worry about that."

Sally shook her head. "He beat up his best friend; I don't think you could change his mind."

Hugo looked towards the bunks and sighed. He took a large sip from his glass and squeezed his eyes shut. "I told you it would be better to just have him stay here," he mumbled. He rubbed his eyes again and groaned.

X

Throughout the years Oliver trained himself to notice if someone had a deformity. He was surprised it took him eight to find Hugo's. Eight whole years he was able to notice if everyone they passed if they were a deform or not. Maybe it was because it was his father. He did love the man, which clouded his mind.

He didn't know. The day he found out though Oliver was fixing a sail, Hugo was watching him carefully. "You know, you'll be able to have your own boat, maybe even take over mine when I'm gone," he laughed.

"I don't want a boat," Oliver said.

Hugo rolled his eyes. "You still can't be caught up on that," he sighed. "I'm sure the RAs aren't even working."

Oliver dropped to the deck and sighed. "Why are you so against this?" he asked. "I was always told I could do anything when I grew up. Well, I'm nineteen now and I want to serve under the kind."

Hugo shook his head. "They're bad people," he told him. "Only idiots follow them."

"What's your problem with them anyway?" asked Oliver. "Are you one of those people? Do you have deformity?"

Hugo said nothing, afraid he would give himself away. He clenched his hands into fists and started working on something else. Oliver watched him silently and his eye caught something. "Your arm," he muttered. "It's…but how?" Hugo stopped what he was doing and swallowed. "I want off this boat. Take me to England now!"

"Now Ollie, don't overreact," Hugo pleaded. "Listen, this hasn't been a problem before. They're not even that far apart, you couldn't even tell."

"I won't report you if you take me to England," Oliver told him. "And if you never return there won't be a problem. I'm old enough. Now let me go and I'll join whatever I want to protect my country from things like you."

Hugo stared at his son, his stomach filling with dread. He had tried so hard to teach Oliver right from wrong but he seemed to fail. He nodded once and turned around; trying to hide his tears. "Next stop, England," he mumbled. "Sally, do we have enough for a trip back home?"

Sally came up from below. "We're not going back there," she told him. With one look though she could tell what had happened. "Oliver, we couldn't tell you, we didn't want you to hate us."

Oliver shook his head. "I'm not helping anymore. He serves me," he stated. He pushed both of them aside and went below to his bunk.

X

Oliver spared his parents jail time, possible death, by letting them go back to the sea. When he stepped foot on solid ground he felt at home. He felt there wasn't a better place for him. The first thing he did was go straight to the recruiting station and talked with someone. After getting checked out, and after he passed his medical exam he was cleared to go. He was off to basic training. It was the best day of his life.

X

Oliver pushed himself through the physical training. Life on a boat really worked up his strength but the running was hard for him. He was taught how to shoot a gun, was top in his squad. He loved the life of a recruit. The thought of becoming an official RA pushed him to go through everything. He was going to protect, and teach the population of the world that some of them weren't right. They had to be taken care of so the rest of the perfect people without deformities could live peacefully.

Attack and Defend. That was their motto. Attack the deforms, and protect the people from the disease.

Oliver had every lesson etched into his mind. He was going to be perfect. Everything had to be perfect for him. His hair was always kept short and neat, his clothes always pressed and sharp. He was born to be a Reichenbach Agent.

X

Three days before graduation there were two tests, the physical test and the written test. Oliver passed his physical test with flying colors. No one had any doubt about that. But he had to study for his written test. There were so many laws, and regulations he had to remember; he was afraid he would forget something.

Hours before the test was supposed to be taken place for their squad Oliver was studying with his friend Byron. "While going on a round up what do you do if you find a deform?" Byron asked. He bit his lip and looked up at him.

Oliver rolled his eyes. "I asked for hard questions," he said. "If I would find a deform I would detain them with handcuffs then take them to my car. I would then bring them to a check point and let those who are there take care of them."

Byron nodded. "What do you do if they fight back?"

"If they fight back shoot them but not kill, you only kill them if they have weapon against you," Oliver sighed. "What I don't understand is why we can't kill them all now and get it over with."

"We don't want to scare off the rest of the world," Byron explained. "You should know that. We want to explain to the rest of the world what we are doing."

Oliver shrugged. "They'll understand," he laughed. "England understood. I mean, no one is even fighting for those freaks."

Byron nodded in agreement. "There is a rumor that these creatures are being created," he said. "It can't be true though; there can't be any person with octopus legs."

Oliver reeled back and looked at him. "Where did you hear that?" he asked. "Sounds ridiculous."

"I heard one of the sergeants talking about it during breakfast this morning," Byron told him. "Really, I mean it. Don't laugh at me."

"They're probably just messing around," Oliver murmured. "No reason to believe something like that; can never happen. That would be like me sprouting fins and gills and becoming a fish."

"Why would it be like that?" Byron question.

"It's impossible that's why," Oliver said, rolling his eyes. "Come on next question." Byron shook his head and read off the next question.

X

Brilliant, that's how one would describe the feeling of being an RA. Oliver loved it. He graduated, passing his written test with only a few wrong questions. He was sent off on his first round up a few days after he graduated. He was being taught the ropes.

They pulled up to an old house and Anderson looked up at it. "This one should be easy," he told Oliver. "Just an old lady lives here, alone." Oliver nodded and they climbed out. He made sure he had everything before he started walking up to the house. "In the city, it's so easy to find these things, people push them out in the streets for us, but out here, it's harder. In the country people can hide better. That's why we conduct most of our searches out here."

Oliver glanced over at him. "Have you ever had to shoot any of them?" he asked.

Anderson nodded. "Oh yeah," he said with a smile. "I've been on hundreds of these things. I had this one kid whose parents pulled a gun on me once. In the end I got the kid. I left the parents alone; I couldn't touch them they're relatives to someone very high up in the government."

"And they had a deform?" Oliver asked. "Who would have a deform if they know someone in the government?"

"The Holmes," Anderson mumbled. "He's not allowed out of his house now. After that incident people are afraid he'll be keeping more deforms around. He seems fine with it though." He stopped in front of the door and knocked loudly. "Look over her folder."

Oliver nodded and read over her folder. "Georgia Handel was checked out a few years ago, nothing wrong with her. She seventy-two years old, never had children, her husband died six years ago."

Anderson nodded and knocked again. "If you ask me we should take every old person and throw them in the jail," he laughed. "Ms. Handel, open up, I'm a RA, if you do not open up we'll be forced to knock down the door and arrest you under suspicion of harboring a deform."

Oliver watched him and after a few more seconds was given a nod. He stepped back and ran to the door, shoulder first, and barreled through it. He coughed as a whole bunch of dust was shot into the air and he shook it from his hair. "Ma'am, it's best if you come out now," he called. He pulled out his gun and held it in front of him as he started walking through the house. He heard sobbing coming from a room and he walked over to it.

Pushing open the door Oliver saw the old woman lying in bed crying. "Please, leave me alone," she said. "I'm going to die soon, just leave me here. I'm not going to harm anyone."

Oliver looked over her and waved his hand in front of her face. The woman was blind. "Anderson," he called over his shoulder. He heard the heavy boots hit the floorboards in the hallway and a smile spread across his face. She was going to be taken care of right away.

"Look what we have here," Anderson said stepping closer to them.

"She's blind," Oliver told him.

"Oh good," Anderson smiled. He grabbed her by her arm and hauled her out of the bed. "You're under arrest."

"Please," Ms. Handel pleaded, "I don't want to go. Just let me live out the rest of my life here."

"Shoot her," Anderson commanded.

Oliver looked up at him. "What?"

"Shoot her, she's resisting, come on," Anderson shouted. "Right in the head, don't worry about the details."

Oliver swallowed and nodded. He cocked his gun and placed it on her forehead. He took in a deep breath and pulled the trigger. He cringed a bit but when Anderson dropped the lifeless body he calmed down. "That wasn't hard," he mumbled to himself.

"I think you would be a great executioner," Anderson laughed. "We got to call this in now, come on."

Oliver nodded and waited 'til Anderson was out of the room before turning to face the woman's body and spat on her. He grinned and walked out of the room. He didn't know his first time shooting someone was would feel so great. He felt so alive. Maybe he would be a better executioner.

X

A week after Oliver's first kill he was assigned to a jail. Once he got there he heard the news about the attack on the old government building. He was getting his bunk ready when he overheard a conversation.

He pulled his head back and he looked in the direction of the people speaking. "They were weird man," he said. "I was there for the attack. I saw one girl with hands as feet. Someone said it had been there for years."

"Without anyone knowing about it?" Oliver interjected. "Come on, you've got to be pulling my leg here."

"No, they were half animal, almost all of them," the guy said. "We stuck around for a bit, searched for a few things and we found a mass grave. There was a plaque that showed where it was. The guy running it was a genius. He was trying to figure out how to mix genes; apparently he was able to do it. Not everyone made it through. That's what the plaque said."

Oliver nodded and bit his lip. "I thought my friend was crazy," he laughed. He scratched his head and looked back at his bunk. "Any survivors?"

"Everyone was killed except for the scientist, we just left him there," he told him. "He was almost dead anyway."

Nodding slowly, Oliver went back to his bunk. There was no need to worry about any animal freaks anymore. He finished making his bed and pulled on his gear. He had to go on patrol around the jail.

As he started walking down the halls of the prison he looked into the doors. He sneered at the few who were still in their cells. They were filthy, why even keep them alive when they were going to spread the disease to the guards. The way they even looked at him made him feel sick. He pushed himself away from the doors and kept one hand on his gun.

He passed by another guard and he nodded towards him. The guard grabbed his arm and stopped him. "Warden wants to see you," he told him.

Oliver's stomach dropped. What would the warden want him for? It was his first day at the jail; he couldn't have already done something wrong. He nodded once and turned around. He jogged up to the warden's office and knocked on the door softly. He took off his hat and waited for permission to enter.

"Enter," Watson yelled.

Oliver swallowed hard and walked in. Watson was sitting behind his desk looking over some papers. He looked up at Oliver and nodded towards the chair in front of the desk. "You wanted to see me sir?"

"Ah, yes," Watson said with a smile. He stood up and walked around to the front of the desk. "I hear you want to be an executioner."

Oliver suppressed a grin. He just put that form in a few days ago and the warden was already speaking to him. "Yes sir," he said with a nod.

Watson nodded and read over his file. "You haven't been in for long. Just under two weeks, are you sure you want to do this?"

"Yes sir, someone told me I would be perfect for the job," Oliver told him.

"I want to tell you something," Watson said, his face becoming very serious. "Executioner suicide rates are rather high, we only recommend it to people who have been in for longer than a year and have passed out psyche exam. Even then it doesn't help to bring down the rates."

Oliver frowned and looked down. "I understand sir," he sighed. "I just want to do my duty to this country."

Watson nodded. "I understand that, that's why I'm going to put you in with a therapist to see if you pass our exam and if you do you'll be able to work as an executioner."

"Thank you sir," Oliver said. He shook his proffered hand and smiled.

"Alright, you'll start your exam tomorrow," Watson said. "Leave my office."

Oliver saluted one last time before leaving the room. For the rest of the day he was walking on clouds.

X

After many hours of doing nothing but talking with a therapist Oliver was passed. He was found stable enough to serve as an executioner. He was ecstatic when he was allowed out of the room after a twenty four hour exam. He was allowed to sleep before he had to report to his new station where he would be given a new uniform and assigned a new leader. It was all very quick, it felt like he was on a stormy sea and nothing stopped until the storm broke at dawn.

He changed into his dark red uniform and made sure his handgun was secured at his side. He felt like a new man already. He walked into the executioner's room where he would pick up his orders for the day but he wasn't allowed to officially get started yet. He had to meet with his new leader and had to learn where everything was before he was allowed to go out to the wall.

"Banks," Moran shouted as he walked into the room. Oliver snapped into attention, his hand going up in a salute. "At ease," Moran muttered. "I don't have all day to baby sit you, so I'm going to give you a quick rundown of things then I'm going to give you a half page of names for today. Can you handle that?"

"Yes sir," Oliver said quickly. He didn't want to relax, unsure of what Moran was like. So far he seemed like he was going to be hard to work with. He would have to wait to see how the other guys acted around him. He followed Moran out of the room and into the armory.

"We're not allowed to take these anywhere other than the wall and here, understand?" Moran asked as he opened up the storage case full of rifles inside smaller cages. Oliver gave a sharp nod. "You will be assigned a rifle, only you will have access to it. You will be given a key that you keep at all times. It reduces the chance of someone taking the rifle and using for no good. Understand?" Oliver gave another nod. "Also, you have to clean and make sure your rifle is in good shape."

Moran closed up the storage case and led him out of the room. "These are our shower, sometimes things can get a little messy. We not only have to kill them, but we also have to take care of their bodies. All the blood goes down the drains and we're done for the day. Also, you're not allowed to bring anyone in here for any kind of intercourse. It's a bathroom only executioners are allowed in." Oliver grimaced and shook his head. "It happens, believe me."

Oliver was taken outside to the executioner's wall where people were lined up and shots were being fired. Oliver licked his lips and watched a few of the other executioners at work. "This is the wall," Moran told him. "This is where we conduct most of our work. You will be given a sheet with names on it and then you'll go to an open wall and call for the prisoners that you want to be brought here." He crossed his arms and looked down at the younger man. "Do you have all that?"

Oliver nodded and tore his eyes away from the men. "Yes sir," he said.

"After you kill them you take the body to the truck. You don't have to worry about it after that," Moran explained. He handed Oliver a clipboard and a set of keys. "Now get going, I don't have time to waste on you anymore. If you have any questions ask someone else, not me." He walked away back to his office where he had to do some paper work.

Oliver looked over the names on the sheet a small smile forming on his face. He swung the keys around his finger and went to go get his rifle. He unlocked the small cage and took out his rifle. He ran his fingers over the gun feeling relaxed as he did so. He shook his head and loaded the gun, bringing it out to the wall.

Finding his own spot he hung his clipboard up on the wall that separated him from the other executioners. He read over the first name and called the man up. Oliver wiped his forehead free of sweat and watched the door at the back of the wall.

A small old man was pushed out of the door and he stumbled forward, the chains clinking on the ground. His tired eyes looked up at Oliver, he was silently pleading with him.

Oliver raised his gun, took aim and shot the man square in the chest. He fell to the ground, blood flowing from the small hole and he was dead. The executioner slung his gun over his shoulder. He called for the next person before picking up the dead man bringing him to the pile that would be carted away. By the time he was back a small teen was waiting for him. He smiled and started the process again.

X

Oliver found out very quickly not many people talked with the executioners. Not even the executioners liked to talk to each other. They mostly just kept to themselves. When it was meal time they sat at their own table and no one bothered them. Oliver found that easily acceptable. He spent most of his life being quiet.

It wasn't until he started hearing rumors about a flying man, which sounded ridiculous, that he actually started talking with people. There was no way a man could fly. The only way there could be a flying man is if he was from the facility that was bombed a few weeks back. No one survived that though.

He just tried to shake his mind off it. He ended up thinking about it constantly. How could someone make creatures like that? It hurt him every time he tried to picture it. It disgusted him. The only time he could take his mind off it was when he was working. It relaxed him, feeling the gun jump back against his shoulder and hearing the body hit the ground it was nice. He wasn't sure why it affected so many people in such a bad way.

Every day though, all he heard about was the flying man. He seemed unstoppable. Oliver wished he could get his hands on him. He would have him dead in seconds. He just wanted to get it over with, maybe people would stop talking about it. It was one of his favorite dreams, killing the freak with his bare hands.

After the rumors of the flying man swept the prison, rumors of an attack flooded the halls. Oliver couldn't ignore this one. The warden gave the order to double up on security and keep an eye out. Oliver wasn't worried though, he knew the deforms weren't nearly as strong as they were and would be put down quickly.

Oliver was confident that the RA's had enough fire power to fight off any military in the world. He didn't do much for security, just made sure he had his keys on him. At any sign of an attack he would just run and get his rifle. Simple as that.

X

The night came when the warden gave the warning the attack was actually coming. He wasn't sure how man were coming and what they were bringing. He just wanted them all gone, he didn't care how.

Everyone's work was cut in half and was allowed to get some extra sleep time so they were awake for the night. They were told to hide, with whatever they had to fight with.

Oliver was hiding behind a wall, rifle clutched to his chest and his eyes shut. He was listening for any sound other than his comrades. He spent hours just listening to silence.

When he heard footsteps the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. They were here. Soon a firefight had started and people were dying around him. He was sure he saw a few glimpses of the intruders. He fired off a few good rounds, hoping they would at least knick the people.

After what seemed like hours a grenade was lobbed out in front of them and Oliver dove away from it. He and the other men got caught in the blast despite their best efforts. Oliver let out a yell as he felt his skin as it was torn. He clutched his arm and passed out.

X

The next time Oliver woke up he was staring up at a blonde man with blurry vision. "Did we win?" he asked.

The blonde shook his head. "No sir," he said. "But don't worry, you're still alive. You're safe."

Oliver sat up and went to rub his eyes but he only had use of one arm. He looked down to his left and noticed nothing was there. "Oh god," he almost yelled. He looked back over to the man and his eyes went even wider. It was the man with wings. His eyes went over the man's dark wings, the feathers shined in the light. He shook his head and pushed him away.

He jumped off his makeshift bed and ran away from the man. He heard shouts behind him and eventually was tugged to a stop. The dull eyes of his old best friend stared up at him. "Ollie, calm down," Dustin said. "You're okay."

Oliver tore his arm away from him. "No," he whispered. He turned around, seeing a man walk by with a gun. He pulled it out of his hostler and held it to his head. He had a deformation, the RA's lost. His whole life broke into pieces. He was filthy. He squeezed his eyes shut and pulled the trigger.

John ran forward and looked down at the lifeless body. "What happened?" he shouted and looked at the man who looked horrified. "Why didn't you stop him?"

The man looked at John. "I don't know," he said. "I couldn't. He was running and just stopped. I didn't have time to stop him."

John ran his fingers through his hair and looked around. "It's alright," he said. "You were scared." He looked down the empty hallway. "And he just stopped?"

"Stopped, said no and turned around to take my gun," the man said. "I would have stopped him if I could."

John nodded and clapped him on the shoulder. "Let's take care of him," he said. He grabbed the RA's feet and the man grabbed his hands. They carried him off setting with the other's that had to buried.

**So? Tell me what you thought about it. I really would like to know. You're probably not going to hear much more about it, so if you didn't like it, don't worry, it gets better from here. Well, good luck, good day, good night. BYE!**


	7. Chapter 7

**Okay, I know this is forever late but I had a rather large road block. It was two months of boot camp. I'm done with it now, about four months over with it now but I didn't have a lot of time after school to really write a full blown chapter. I hope you all forgive me and enjoy this chapter. There's a treat at the end. See ya. **

Sherlock watched as John paced back and forth in the small room they were sharing in the prison. "John, calm down," he told him. "Things are going great."

John stopped his sharp movements, looking up at his friend. "I'm sorry; it's just, a lot has happened in the last two weeks. I mean, all my friends are dead, my father turned out to be head of a prison full of people like me, and I'm at war my bloody country."

Sherlock stood up and grabbed him by the shoulders. John tensed a bit, spreading his wings in an intimidating manner. "Calm down," he whispered, not being phased by the stance. John relaxed just a bit. "Okay. I know that you lost so many people but think of what we're doing now. We are about to go on a tour, taking out all the prisons, freeing so many more people. Listen to me when I say things will get better for you. For all of us."

John licked his lips and looked down, his wings sagging to the floor. "You're right Sherlock," he murmured. "I'm just stressed."

"We all are," Sherlock said. "Trust me; you're not the only one that needs to relax for a bit." He let go of John and sat on the desk that was in the corner of the room. "We have five prisons in the north, six towards the south. We will be taking care of all of them. We are stocked with more rifles and men then before." He paused and looked at the map that was folded up. "We have to strike before they get us."

"Then we should leave soon," John said, stepping towards Sherlock. He grabbed the map and opened it up. "This one is closer to us; I believe they will attack before any of the others. So if we leave here, leaving behind enough men to fight then we should be good. We can't lose this place as much as we think we can."

Sherlock nodded and licked his lips as he looked over the map. He tapped on an 'X'. "We should move our forces here," he said. "It's secluded enough that they won't get reinforcements in time before our attack."

John nodded. "Bloody genius," he muttered. "When should we leave though?"

Sherlock looked of the window, noticing a small spider crawling across and out a small hole in the window pane. "I'll tell everyone the plan, get them mobilized. They should be strong enough to be able to start moving. But we have to go soon." He stood up and grabbed his jacket, pulling it on. "You stay here, mark out our route. We'll need two separate ones, one for the rest of the troops and one for us. We'll be leaving after them."

John nodded. "Of course," he said.

Sherlock left the room, going to the mess hall to gather everyone together.

X

A few days after the small army of went on their long journey. Just John, Sherlock, enough men to hold down the prison and the prisoners, enough to hold their own were left behind. When it was time to leave Sherlock went on the search for John. He found the man standing outside his father's cell. Sherlock walked up behind John and peered inside. "We have to go John," he told him.

John glanced back at him and nodded. "Alright," he said. He turned and walked away.

Sherlock sighed and turned to follow him but he was stopped by the soft voice of the older Watson. "Please tell my son I'm sorry," he said, sounding weak and defeated.

Sherlock tilted his head to the side, eyes turning grey as he gave him a curious look. Why would he still seek his son's forgiveness even after all he had done? "No, I don't think I will," he said. "Have a nice day." He followed after John catching up with him quickly.

"Ready to go Sherlock?" John asked, getting the harness on so he could carry Sherlock.

Sherlock grabbed John's arm and pulled him into a hug. "John, you have a new family now," he told him. He didn't know where all these feelings were coming from but he didn't like the way John looked. He looked almost broken.

John relaxed a bit and hugged him back. "Thank you Sherlock," he sighed.

Sherlock smiled and pulled back. "Alright, let's go," he said. He grabbed his gun and a few grenades they had left, setting everything up.

The night was cold as Sherlock stepped outside. He turned to John and sighed. "We need to get a way to cover you up without impeding your flying."

"I'm fine Sherlock," John told him despite his shaking.

Sherlock nodded. "You won't be for long," he said. He stood in front of John as he handed him the straps over his shoulders. Sherlock flipped everything together and smiled.

It was a better version of the harness Sherlock had made for them before their first attack. He was rather proud of how well it kept them balanced.

"Ready?" John asked, already flapping his wings.

"When you are," Sherlock said with a grin. In a matter of seconds they were in the air, flying up.

They leveled out and Sherlock let out a laugh. "I will never get over that feeling," he told John.

John smiled, resting his hands on Sherlock's back. "I've been doing it most my life, I still get an adrenaline burst."

Sherlock smiled and looked over his shoulder. "When the war is over we'll have to just fly for fun," he said. He shut his eyes and sighed. "It would be great to have just a ride."

John hummed in response, dipping off to the left. "Maybe," he said.

Sherlock grinned and spread out his arms. He loved flying; it was one of the best feelings in the world.

X

The two stopped the trek long and horrible. Sherlock could tell that John was exhausted and needed to sleep.

They were resting that night in a small field. Sherlock had his jacket curled tightly around his shoulders but it wasn't keeping him warm. He glanced at John who looked fine, curled up under his wings.

"John," Sherlock said, shaking slightly. "Can I borrow some of your heat?"

John lifted his wing up and peeked at Sherlock. He nodded and motioned for him to come over. Sherlock crawled closer to him and lay down next to him.

John lowered his wing on to Sherlock and the man relaxed, already feeling warm. "See, I told you I was fine," John murmured.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and shifted slightly closer. "Good night," he murmured.

John smiled, his eyes sliding shut. "Night Sherlock," he slurred.

Sherlock smiled when he could hear that he was asleep. He shut his own eyes, falling asleep as well.

The next morning Sherlock woke up. The sun was just rising and it was a bit warmer. He looked down, seeing John lying on his chest, eyes slightly open. "Morning," he whispered.

John looked up at him. "Morning," he said. "Your heart is soothing."

"Is it?" Sherlock asked. "I feel like it would be annoying to listen to all those gears grinding against each other."

John shook his head slightly, saying nothing more on the matter. "We need to get going," he murmured.

Sherlock nodded and sat up as John got up. "Are you okay John?" He asked as be pulled together his gear again.

"Yeah," John said, getting the harness back on.

Sherlock nodded. "Alright," he sighed. He shook his head. He needed to focus on their main problem, not John. John was important yes but Sherlock couldn't let him run his life. He couldn't thing about him more often than not. He was letting his emotions take over. Sherlock hooked himself up to John again and they were off.

X

They flew for the rest of the day, meeting up with their men just outside the area of the prison. As Sherlock expected they were on higher security, for a good reason too. Sherlock knew they were going to take the prison by force.

They had to make sure they knew where's to strike first though so it was another night to wait. Probably for the best too, everyone was tired and worn out. They would fight better if they struck the next day.

Sherlock decided to sit down, relax as well. He was going to spend the night thinking of all the vantage points they could use. He was off from the rest of the group, where it was quiet, watching the prison, his eyes working through the pitch darkness. He heard a noise behind him and he quickly looked over his shoulder. "John," he whispered.

"Came to keep you company," John whispered. "Also, I didn't want you to get cold again like last night."

Sherlock smiled and nodded. "Thank you John," he said. "You're too kind to me."

John sat next to him, wrapping his wing the best he could around Sherlock's shoulders. He rested his head against him and shut his eyes.

Sherlock looked down at him. He let out a soft sigh and took his hand, giving it a small squeeze. "Sleep," he said. John nodded, lacing their fingers together. Sherlock smiled and moved closer to John. The man was a human, or half human half bird, heater.

John was special. Sherlock came to that conclusion. If Sherlock believed there was such a thing he would say John was an angel sent to save Sherlock. The genius was sure he wouldn't have been there if it hadn't been for John.

Sherlock rested his head against John's, shutting his eyes for a moment. He was too far gone to stop caring about the man now.

X

They were getting ready to attack, to take another strong hold as their own. Moral was high which was a good thing for them. They were going to need it. Sherlock had noticed that the prison had more guards patrolling than the last one. It was a little unnerving.

Sherlock felt a hand on his back and he turned slightly to see John coming to his side. It was odd how he had come so used to his touch. He gave him a small smile. "What's our plan," John asked, "same thing as before?"

Sherlock nodded. "Of course," he said. "We fly in right over their heads and we attack from the top as they get the bottom."

John grinned and nodded to himself. "And if they attack us because they know about me?"

"Well then we have a bit more of a fight," Sherlock said. "They have four men patrolling on the ground, eight up in the guard towers. The biggest problem would be for our ground forces." He was pulling on the harness, trying to watch the prison for any type of changes.

John nodded and turned to look at the prison with him, trying to see what the man was seeing. He spread out his wings and sighed. "It's been a rough few days," he mumbled.

Sherlock turned to look at him. "What's wrong?" he asked, eyes roaming over his form quickly.

"Just my wings are a bit cramped," John told him. "I haven't ever done this much flying especially not after a broken wing."

"Oh," Sherlock said clearly relaxing. "Be happy we won't be using them for a bit after this."

"I am but I'm not at the same time," John said. "It means we have to take another break and let them build up more defenses."

Sherlock shook his head. "It's perfectly normal to feel that," he mumbled. He looked back towards the prison and noticed something coming around the side. His eyes widened. "They're coming!" he yelled to his men. "Get ready to fight." He lifted his own rifle, firing off a few rounds as they grew closer.

John knew he had to help somehow. He looked around and grabbed a few grenades belts and put them on. He walked over to Sherlock and took off his dog tags, putting them around his neck. "Stay safe," he whispered.

Sherlock turned to look at him just in time to see the man fly off. It was the first time they would be separated during a battle. His hands started shaking slightly as he tried to not worry about John, his eyes going a light shade of gold.

The RA's got closer and bullets were flying past Sherlock and the other rebels. He hid behind a tree, quickly getting himself together. He lifted John's tags to his mouth and bit down on them. He swung around and started firing off rounds, hitting their targets.

Sherlock wasn't sure if they were going to get through all the men. There was just so many of them. He heard a small explosion go off as John dropped grenades on the forces that were attacking. He grinned. Maybe they had a chance.

X

It felt like hours had passed. The rebels were making progress, getting through the small force of men. Sherlock may have miscalculated their numbers but they had miscalculated theirs as well.

He noticed that John had disappeared some time ago and he was back to worry if he was alright. The other rebels were rushing pass Sherlock and towards the prison.

It took a few seconds for Sherlock to shake himself from his thoughts and run with them. He hoped that they didn't kill all the prisoners. It was a logical thing to do if you were hoping to stop a rebel force from getting more rebels.

Sherlock ran through the entrance, looking around quickly, quickly ducking behind a wall to avoid getting shot at, more men in the prison then. He quickly rounded the corner, firing off a shot nearly missing the RA.

Where were they all coming from? How could so many people be fed lies and believe them? He shook his head and moved furthering. He needed to find John, take down the warden and free the prisoners.

Angelo came to his side. "They're surrendering," he told him.

Sherlock gave him an odd look. "They're what?" he asked. "How could they be surrendering already?"

"Why are you questioning it?" Angelo asked. "Shouldn't we be happy?"

Sherlock shook his head. Something was wrong. He gave a command to Angelo to keep an eye on the RA's that were 'surrendering' and to shoot them if anyone made a false move.

Sherlock made his way through the corridors, looking in every door he could find. All the rooms were empty. When he reached the cells he looked inside them, watching as the men and women looked up at him with hope in their eyes.

So they were still alive, that was good. "Run," came a rough voice from one of the prisoners.

Sherlock stopped and turned to look at him. "What do you mean?" he asked, stepping closer to the bars.

The man coughed, his body shaking. "Run," he said again as if it was all he could say.

Sherlock clenched his jaw shut and started walking down the corridor again at a faster pace this time. He needed to figure out what was wrong. He should have turned around though. Taken the man's advice and run; however, he needed John.

John still was not to be seen. All the other men could die but Sherlock would have been fine if John would survive. He could feel his heart working at a faster pace, knowing he was growing nervous. He shouldn't have left his feelings get the best of him.

Once he reached the wardens office he paused. What surprise would he get now? Another long lost family member? He opened the door and stared at what was ahead of him.

A large spider's web covered the room, the warden's dead body in the middle of it. Sherlock stepped closer, his curiosity getting the best of him. He touched a strand of the web and the whole things bounced. Hundreds of spiders crawled from the warden's mouth and towards Sherlock.

Sherlock quickly moved backwards tripping over a box and sliding on the floor. He glanced towards the box and noticed it had a timer going down. Two minutes and thirty seconds it read.

His eyes widened and he quickly scrambled to his feet. Running from the room Sherlock skidded around the corner running as fast as he could to warn every one of the bomb.

Sherlock jumped down the stairs, eyes searching as he went for and of the rebels or John. When he finally reached his army the words weren't even out of his mouth when the bomb detonated.

X

Rubble was everyone as Sherlock finally came too. He was staring up at the sky, a small dust cloud blurring the view. He blinked a few times, sitting up slowly.

Sharp pain ran through his head and quickly he put his hand against it feeling liquid trailing down his head. He sighed as he pulled it away and saw the blood.

Sherlock looked around, his eyes looking at the ruined building. He could hear a few groans over the ringing in his ears. 'Groans, a good sign,' he thought. He stood up, slowly regaining his balance. He moved over large pieces of the building looking for his men.

Only a few were seriously injured and a few of them dead. The blast was big but not big enough it seemed as those who Sherlock found came together.

The RA's seemed to be still surrendering as they weren't trying to fight them at all. Sherlock found that odd still. If the bomb was their idea they wouldn't have stayed inside.

"Alright, start a search for anyone you can find," Sherlock said. "Rebel, RA, prisoner, anyone. If they are injured move those to one spot if they are dead move them somewhere else. If they are able to walk and help search have them do so. If it's and RA and is refusing to help send them to watch the dead." He paused, taking a quick look around. Still no John. "If you find John notify me right away."

He turned and started his own search.

X

With each passing hour Sherlock couldn't help but worry now. John wasn't anywhere it seemed. They still hadn't made it through all the debris from the blast. They were still finding new bodies, most of them dead as they got closer to the office the bomb went off from, none of them with wings.

He was leaning against the wall, gripping John's tags in his hand as tightly as he could. His mind was working, trying to figure out where John could be. He heard footsteps and his eyes shot open. It was Angelo. "Did you find him?" he asked.

Angelo shook his head. "Not yet," he said. "They think we should move on. We found all the living. They're afraid the RA's will start attacking again."

Sherlock let out a low growl. "We haven't found all the living yet," he said. "John's in here somewhere and we are going to find him. If you don't want to help then you and the rest of the army can leave and I will look for him myself."

Angelo sighed and looked down. "We'll keep looking sir," he said.

Sherlock nodded. "Thank you Angelo," he said. He turned away. "If we don't find him in an hour we will move on."

"Anything you wish sir," Angelo said. "Just try to relax for a moment. You look like you need it." With that he left Sherlock again.

Sherlock shut his eyes and sighed, gently pulling at his hair. He shouldn't ever get attached. This is what happened. You stress out and worry about those around you. It wasn't good for anyone. Especially the small army they had now.

He fell back against the wall again and slid to the floor. He continued to grip the tags in his hand. "Please be alive, John," he whispered. "I never say please, just this once I hope it works. You can't be gone just yet."

X

Sherlock felt someone tap his shoulder and his head bolted up, his head swirling with dizziness. He must have phased out. "Did you find him?" he asked, hope filling his words.

The girl nodded. "Yes sir," she said. "We found him under some broken boards holding a child to his chest."

Sherlock stood quickly, nearly falling over. "Show me," he said.

She could see the blood better once Sherlock stood up and out of the shadow. "Are you alright?" she asked. "We have people that can take care of you downstairs."

"I'm fine," Sherlock told her. "Show me where John is. Is he alive? Is he hurt?"

"Um, he's barely hurt," she told him. "Just a bit banged up like the rest of us. Follow me." She led him down the stairs and the small ramps the explosion made.

They made it to the ground floor and Sherlock looked around. "Where is he?" he asked, getting angry.

"I don't know sir," she said. "He was down here just a minute ago."

"Where did John go?" Sherlock asked the closest person.

The man pointed to one of the few intact rooms. "He's cleaning himself up a bit," he said.

Sherlock turned on his heel and went to the door. He stopped outside of it, thinking of why he was so angry. Why did he care so much about John? His heart started working harder again and he could feel the gears working as fast as they could.

He shut his eyes and opened the door. There was John, wiping dirt and dust from his face, a few cuts and bruises covering his body, but still whole. John turned and gave him a smile. "Sherlock," he said with a soft sigh.

Sherlock's heart slowed to a near halt and he couldn't help but feel relief flood over him. He rushed forward and pulled John into a kiss, all his emotions coming out all at once.

He felt John tense up but relaxed after a few seconds. Sherlock felt his strong arms wrap about his waist tightly, pulling him closer as he was kissed back.

A few moments had passed and Sherlock pulled back from him. "Don't you ever leave me alone like that again, do you hear me?" he asked. He dropped his head against his. "I thought you were dead John Watson. I thought I lost you forever."

John shook his head slightly, looking into his bright blue eyes. "I'm sorry," he murmured, kissing him again. "I am so sorry."

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut, not wanting to ever let John go again. "You'll be the death of me one day John Watson," he murmured. "Just you wait."

**So? I know it was short but was it worth the wait? Tell me what you think. Please. I know I say this all the time but I love the reviews. I will write more with them. So, write, like, review, I love you. I hope you all have a good night or a good day, or a good morning. BYE!**


End file.
